To Study Oneself
by kattykitty
Summary: (Uni!Lock) AU: When depression threatens to turn John Watson's life upside down, things seem to only get worse when his tutor assigns William Sherlock Scott Holmes to help him with his studies: then again, they often say that opposites attract. With someone as unpredictable as Sherlock in his life, John starts to realise that maybe 'upside down' is exactly where he wants to be.
1. Chapter 1

**AU: After John begins to slip into depression whilst studying in his first year at university he finds himself (unwillingly) assigned to a Personal Academic Tutor and, truly, the guy is a total arsehole. What could John possibly gain from William Sherlock Scott Holmes? Rated M for language and the possibility of sex in later chapters!**

**Sadly, I own absolutely nothing. Well, maybe the storyline. But that's it. Using 'William' at the moment for Sherlock but this will no doubt change as our two boys get closer. Anyhoo, R&R and I'll love you forevermore!**

**Chapter One**

"I'm concerned about you, John," the red-headed woman on the opposing side of the desk to him sighed, ruffling through the papers she held in her stubby, ringed fingers, "and I'm not the only one. All of your class tutors -"

"I know."

She took her glasses off, closing her eyes and pinching the top of her nose before opening her eyes and gazing at the twenty-three year old wearily. "Do you? Because the John Watson I know doesn't get below fifty percent on an essay. The John Watson I personally interviewed for a place on this course doesn't get below fifty and seem completely unperturbed." Slowly she put the papers down, taking in his form carefully. "If something is going on, John, you need to tell us. We can't help you if -"

"I know," he cut across again, his mottled blue-brown eyes flicking up to meet her steady gaze before dropping back to stare at the desk in front of them. "I'm sorry."

Joanne Harvey sighed once more, leaning back in her chair, fingers idly playing with her wire-rimmed glasses. "I'm not sure what you're apologising for. Could you maybe expand on that?"

"Is this a therapy session?" His tone was curt, a cutting and sarcastic enquiry; instantly he regretted it, seeing her eyebrows raise high behind her fringe and the tightening of her jaw. He raised his hands out in surrender, or perhaps more likely in defence. "I'm sorry. For that. And for the bad marks. I know... I know it's not what you expect from me."

With the experienced stare of a woman who had been teaching young, intelligent minds for the last twenty years, Joanne's mind started to tick as she looked him over. His hair, usually at least combed, was longer, sticking up all over the place. His clothes – a rumpled pale blue shirt and faded jeans – looked as if they had been slept in, perhaps even unwashed for a few days. His eyes were half-ringed by dark circles, skin pale, and if she were a betting sort of woman she would have bet her pearl earrings that he hadn't been eating properly. It seemed she had been missing something for the last few weeks.

"John."

He did not look up at her, but he tilted his chin up slightly to indicate that he was listening.

"John, would you like to talk to someone?"

A brief, humourless smile fled across his lips and disappeared as quickly as it had come. "I'm talking to you now."

"No," she said gently, leaning forward and steepling her fingers in front of her, resting her chin lightly on top of her fingertips. "I mean talk to someone who... might be able to help you."

Finally he looked up, staring at her incredulously. "Are you telling me to speak to a... I don't know, a therapist? A counsellor?"

"No," she repeated herself, keeping the same frustratingly even tone, "no, I'm not telling you to do anything. It's completely your decision. I've just found in the past that when students, highly intelligent young students such as yourself, are struggling with the workload sometimes talking to someone can really make a difference."

John's expression was flat, his tone even more so. "I'm not struggling with the workload. The workload is bearable."

The way he phrased it spoke volumes to her well-versed ear. "Then what _isn't_ bearable, John? What are you struggling with if it's not the workload?"

John's lips separated for a moment, seemingly considering his answer – alas, another humourless smile twitched at the corners of his mouth; he shook his head slowly, placing his palms flat on the desk as he pushed himself up. "No, y'know... I don't think I want to have this conversation."

Joanne stayed seated, wanting to allow him to have the upper hand here. "With me, or with anyone?"

"With anyone," he pushed out through his tight smile, forcing his eyes to stay on hers. "I mean you no disrespect, Joanne, as I know you're just doing your job and you have my best interests at heart –I do know that. But I can't. I just... I can't. I'm sorry." He laughed slightly, a dull ring falling from his throat. "Apparently I'm sorry about a lot of things today."

Now she stood, putting her glasses back on and looking down at him with a mixture of sympathy and steeliness, an odd combination that made John's stomach tense. "I understand that you don't want to explain things to me, John, but I simply cannot fathom the idea that you care so little about your degree that you're unwilling to give me _something_ to work with. I'm your personal tutor and so yes, you're right that it's my job to make sure you don't fail, but more importantly it's in my _interest_ that you find a way around this academic block you seem to be facing! Believe it or not I do care about your future, and unless you give me something that I can take back to your seminar leaders I just don't know if I'm going to be able to help you get a concession for your most recent work."

Taking in a few measured breaths, John took a careful step backwards. "I'm sorry."

"John -"

"I'll work harder. I'll get it done. I'll bring my marks up."

Joanne walked around the desk, slow and calm as she spread her fingers out wide in front of her as if in some sort of attempt to keep him from bolting from the office as he so clearly wanted to do. "That's good. I'm glad you want to do that. But I think we're both overlooking something here, and I really think that if you -"

"Look, I'm sorry to do this, but I've actually got a study session to get to," he interrupted, glancing behind him at the door as if he wanted nothing more than to get the hell out of there. "With some of my flatmates, you know."

She was not fooled. "At least consider -"

"I'm terribly late," he mumbled, taking two steps back, hand stretched out behind him towards the door – in this motion she caught a flash of his upbringing, his inability to be impolite and turn his back on a person ranked above him regardless of how cornered or stressed he was clearly feeling. "I really must go, I am sorry."

"But..." She sighed, allowing him to win this one. "All right. You can go. But please John, just remember that we're here to help you, not judge you. If you need extra support, you need only say."

So desperate to escape this situation as he was, Johns head began to nod, words falling out of his mouth before he could stop them.

"Yeah, extra support, sounds like a good idea – look, I really have to go but thanks Joanne, thanks again, and sorry, sorry..."

He slid out of the door without turning his back for a single moment, closing the door quietly after him and speeding off so quickly that his shoes squeaked audibly on the flooring all the way down the hallway. Joanne stayed standing for a few moments, listening until the squeaking had dissipated, her mind instantly cranking into gear and turning over the possibilities. What she wanted to do in response to her growing concern was to contact the university counselling service and put through a recommendation that he be contacted – after all, he had agreed (albeit hastily and probably with no intention of actually seeking support) to the idea of help – but she was well aware that if she did this she would no doubt push him away; young John Watson was clearly someone who did not want to face up to whatever he was going through, and she would not be responsible for making it worse.

Academic support on the other hand was her forte, and it was well within her rights as his personal tutor to arrange something. If she could find someone to help him with his studies, to support him in his workload, perhaps he would find the clarity to deal with whatever else was going on in his life – at least, that was what she would tell herself. She couldn't just do _nothing_. He was one of the brightest students she had come across in _years_.

A small smile formed on her lips. _Well_. _Apart_ _from_ **him**_._ _Speaking_ _of_ _which_...

Walking back around to the other side of her desk, Joanne sat down heavily on her desk chair and pulled her laptop towards her. With diligent fingers and John's downcast face in her mind, she opened up Microsoft Outlook and began typing a new email.

** X**

He did not need a counsellor to tell him what was wrong.

The days were darker. There had been no trigger, no real warning signs; one day he had been fine, studying in the library as usual, calling up Mike from his student flat on campus to make arrangements for their bi-weekly piss-up, looking at girls with a distant, shy interest... and then he had woken up the next day. Nothing much had changed – he still got out of bed, brushed his teeth, combed his hair, but there was something slightly off about it, something he couldn't put his finger on. He'd got his things together for his seminar, notebooks and pens, but as he'd gone to pull his bedroom door open he'd found himself hesitating for no apparent reason; his mind still felt fuzzy, furred at the edges, and at first he simply considered the idea that perhaps he hadn't slept well enough or that he was coming down with something. Turning his head, he looked to his rumpled bed and felt the first strange dullness start to seep through his veins – he didn't want to go to class today. Perhaps he should have a bit of a nap instead, especially if his head wasn't _all there_.

So he had dumped notebook and bag down by the side of his desk and shucked off his trainers, shuffling over to the bed and crawling back into it. He didn't sleep – instead he found himself staring up at the ceiling with his mind beginning to spin a mile a minute, none of his thoughts really taking hold so that he could at least think about _something_... but his mind felt full regardless. He tried to think about the course material that they would be covering today, the material that he would miss – something to do with genes – but it was all a bit difficult to focus on, so John gave up on that. Instead he let his mind attempt to latch on to his and Mike's big night out tomorrow, thinking of how he would finally get to speak to that girl he'd seen constantly around campus, Mary something... and yet that didn't hold either. The thought just whirled itself away with the others, blurring into a dull sort of grey mess as it span in the recesses of his mind and leaving him simply staring at nothing, thinking of nothing.

He was probably just tired.

So he slept. He slept through the missed lecture and seminar, slept through two missed calls from Mike, woke up once and saw the darkening sky and decided that he may as well sleep some more. When he had finally awoken properly at 3am, he laid in bed for a further hour, staring at the ceiling and wondering what form of illness this odd feeling would take – perhaps the flu. It would explain why his body was still tired despite excessive sleep and explain his lack of concentration. But he'd try to go to his seminar tomorrow, of that he was certain. He couldn't miss two days in a row.

Yet here he was now, two months later and more than a few handfuls of missed seminars and lectures littering the ground beneath his dragging feet. His marks were dipping considerably, his attendance more so – he had not spoken to Mike in two weeks, dodging his calls, unable to force himself to even attempt to be sociable. He had gritted his teeth through phone calls from his parents, forcing himself to lie about how university was going, about how his essays were being written far in advance and that his personal tutor couldn't be more pleased with him; his mother had lapped it up eagerly, so proud of her son. She had sent him letters from his grandparents, gently pushing with loving words to encourage him to write back – and usually he would. Usually it would take little to no effort to write out a little letter to any member of his family with updates from his life at university. They were all impressed, especially considering how his sister Harry was spending her life at the moment. When he really thought about it – and thinking wasn't really in his repertoire these days – the way that he was currently spending his time would probably still be considered better than drowning in alcohol and women, which pretty much summed up Harry's life.

Instead, John was drowning in nothing.

Major depressive disorder – that was what it was called. Though he wasn't what you'd call _knowledgeable_ about mental health issues, he knew enough to be certain that what had been taking over his life since term started was depression. It was... embarrassing. A weakness. He knew that it ran in his family, knew it was something that would have probably visited him in an unwelcome appearance at some point during his life but the fact that it was _now_, during his first year of university... then again, at least it was this first year, his pre-medical year. After having left school with three A Levels and none of them in a science (and having taken a year out to travel, the ultimate gap year stereotype), he was now required to take an initial year covering all three sciences and, should he fail, he'd also fail to continue to the actual five-year medical course. If he let this... this _thing_ take over his life as he had so far, he would never become a doctor. He'd never be what he wanted to be, _dreamed_ of being.

His depressive habits hadn't changed much since those first few days of it settling into his system. He still slept too much. He hadn't really been eating right, mostly because he was loathe to leave his room for too long lest he see someone who would try to talk to him and end up wondering why they had sought him out when he was clearly no more interesting than a slipper. His thoughts primarily consisted of either not much of anything at all, a messy mulch, or the constant thought of what a failure he was turning out to be. Maybe if there had been some sort of situation that had set it off, maybe if a relative had died or he'd been rejected by a woman or even if his self-esteem had taken a plummet he could have blamed it on that and dealt with the issue at the base of it, but the cold, hard fact remained that there was nothing that had set the depression off. It had just... appeared. It had taken the foundations from beneath the usually grounded and sensible young man and turned him into a walking, barely-talking shadow of his former self.

He stared at this version of himself now, eyes flat and emotionless as he stared into the mirror that hung, slightly crooked, over his sink. His eyes had seemingly lost their colour, any strong hints of brown or blue all melding together in some sort of dull grey; his light brown hair, though now washed after forcing himself to have a shower (which he had rather desperately needed) was messed up and sticking up on one side after having dozed off with it still damp; his clothes were crinkled, his iron sitting unused to one side of his desk for the last four weeks. He'd managed to go about his life almost as normal for the first month, still doing his work, missing some seminars and lectures but essentially eating somewhat normally (though at ridiculous times of the morning depending on when he woke up) and still making the effort to at least _look_ like a human being – when this had changed, he hadn't really noticed. It had just become part of his new routine. Not bothering... yes, that was his new routine. He had no idea how to change that. He wouldn't see a counsellor – damn Joanne for even suggesting it, damn her – and he wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't lean on anyone, he could deal with this alone...

_~Bing~_

The noise was muffled, the jumper he had thrown over his laptop three days ago almost completely hiding the sound but yes, there it was, the sound of yet another e-mail cluttering his already crammed university email inbox... John felt himself exhale, his body turning slowly to go over to the old machine. He hadn't checked his emails for days, knowing there would be more messages from his tutors who were trying so hard to be understanding whilst at the same time clearly losing patience with him and his lack of attendance; he hadn't even told them his suspicions of what was going on with his head, he didn't dare. The minute he admitted it to them they'd force him to do something about it and he wasn't ready for that. Not at all.

Pushing the sweatshirt unceremoniously off of the laptop and onto the floor, he sat on the edge of his desk chair and moved his mouse erratically, reawakening the screen and slowly lighting up until he could see the page in front of him.

_Hello, John Watson. You have 17 new emails._

Huh. Seventeen. He'd probably slept through most of them. Sighing, he moved his mouse over the ones which said things such as 'LONDON UNIVERSITY OF SCIENCES STUDENT UNION MEMBERS, HALF PRICE DRINKS TONIGHT' and 'Attendance Concerns' and instantly deleted them, knowing that whatever was in them was of no bother to him – after his conversation with Joanne yesterday he was almost certain that she would have spoken to his seminar leaders already, though what she could have possibly said was a mystery to him. Like everything these days, he didn't particularly care what was said.

He started scrolling through the rest, eyes barely scanning the contents, deleting each one as he went – finally he went to delete one final email, the most recent, when suddenly his eyes caught the subject heading and he felt his stomach tense, though in frustration, anger or embarrassment he was completely unsure.

John swallowed hard, forcing himself to read:

* * *

**To:** _**Watson, J**_

**From: _Holmes, W_**

**Date: **_April 17__th__ 2013 – 9:52pm_

**Subject: **_Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)_

_John,_

_Having been given your name by Joanne Harvey at the London University of Sciences it is now my duty to inform you that I have been assigned to you as a Personal Academic Tutor (though for the sake of time I will now refer to myself as your 'PAT' when necessary). I have been instructed to assure you of my willingness to help you within the realms of academia and am to make myself available to you at any time should you need assistance with your general course content and subsequent essay submissions._

_Please note that though the phrase 'any time' was in fact used by Jo Harvey, I would prefer that you only contact me between the hours of 6am to 6pm on weekdays, though in special circumstances I would also allow contact during the same hours on a weekend. Please also be aware that, as your PAT, I am merely an accessory to your learning and will not consider 'special circumstances' to be anything other than academic emergencies._

_Please e-mail me presently to arrange an initial meeting to further discuss your requirements._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

* * *

John's jaw tightened, left hand curling into a ball as he let the words blur to nothing; so Joanne had gone and arranged help for him, had she? Hadn't he expressly said that he didn't want help? I mean, sure, he'd quickly spouted something in his panic about having extra support but he'd thought she had meant with her or with his seminar leaders, not with some middle-aged twat he didn't even know! This William Holmes, this obviously stuck-up, jumped-up PAT or whatever, he was nothing to John, even more of a nothing than everything else in his life – it was none of his business how John was doing in his course! The frustration was overwhelming, an odd sort of relief after the last two months of emptiness – John almost felt as if he could wrap his arms around it, a real and solid emotion for the first time in what felt like an endless space of time.

But then he remembered why he was frustrated.

Hesitating for a few moments, trying to force himself to remember how to communicate without simply repeating 'I know' and 'I'm sorry' over and over, he hit the reply button with perhaps a little more force than necessary and slowly started typing out a response to the unwelcome stranger.

* * *

_William,_

_Please don't consider me rude, however I didn't ask Joanne Harvey to set me up with a personal academic tutor and I don't particularly think I need one. I recommend you find someone who actually needs help, as I'm sure there are many students who would benefit from your 'services' more than me._

_Thanks._

_John._

* * *

Not bothering to close the laptop, John quickly left the room to nip to the toilet, determined not to potentially bump into anyone who would try and initiate a conversation with him. He waited a few moments after washing his hands, listening out to ensure that nobody was lingering in the hallway before pulling open the door and hurrying back into his dark room, locking the door behind him and glancing at the screen of his laptop before readying himself to collapse onto his bed.

_Hello, John Watson. You have 1 new email._

Eyes narrowing, he forced himself to sit opposite the computer once more and squinted at the too-bright screen, gaze zeroing in on the sender and feeling his brow crease. _Holmes, W._ It was ten o'clock on a Friday night, what the hell was this guy doing on his university email account? At least John had an excuse, he had no life at the moment to speak of, but this guy probably had a wife, kids, some sort of life outside of being a tutor!

John opened the email, perched on the edge of his seat.

* * *

**To:** _**Watson, J**_

**From: _Holmes, W_**

**Date: **_April 17__th__ 2013 – 10:06pm_

**Subject**: _RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)_

_John,_

_It was my understanding that you are currently struggling with your studies. **My** recommendation is that you do indeed take the opportunity of using my services, should you wish to complete your pre-medical year and go on to medical training._

_Please contact me to discuss your needs._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

* * *

John gritted his teeth. Who _was_ this guy, making assumptions about someone he knew nothing about?

* * *

_William,_

_I don't want your help. I don't need anything from you. I will be telling Joanne exactly the same thing._

_John._

* * *

Barely three minutes later he had received another response.

* * *

**To:** _**Watson, J jhw19 .uk**_

**From: _Holmes, W wssh58 .uk_**

**Date: **_April 17__th__ 2013 – 10:11pm_

**Subject**: _RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)_

_John,_

_I can only deduce from your email that you are defensive about your current shortfalls in your academic performance. Please be assured that your shortfalls are merely a response to your underwhelming brain capabilities and that you are one of nearly all in the same situation at our university. It is nothing to be ashamed of._

_Please contact me to discuss how much support you require._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

* * *

"Prick," John surmised, hardly believing what he was reading. "What an utter prick."

* * *

_William,_

_Let me spell it out for you in simple terms: fuck off. I do not require ANYTHING from you. I can only imagine that your giant, over-fed brain is too crammed full of how much you adore yourself to comprehend that to even get into this university I had to complete not only an hour-long interview but also three exams, all of which I passed with merit. Take your planet-sized ego, shove it up your arse and leave me alone._

_John._

* * *

Five minutes on:

* * *

**To:** _**Watson, J**_

**From: _Holmes, W_**

**Date: **_April 17__th__ 2013 – 10:22pm_

**Subject**: _RE: Academic Tutor (Joanne Harvey recommendation)_

_John,_

_I see that I have somehow offended you. That was not my intention. Though I of course have a far superior brain to your own, I am in no way insinuating that you are unintelligent and hope that you accept my apology both for offending you and for ignoring your request that I 'fuck off'. Joanne was most complimentary about you in her recommendation and I am assured that you are more than up to the task of improving your academic standings. Please be assured that I am your best chance of doing so._

_Should you wish for me to, as you put it, 'fuck off', please simply refrain from answering this e-mail, however if you wish to perhaps discuss properly the kind of support I can offer you then I ask that you forward on a time in the near future that you are available._

_Once again, my sincerest apologies._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

* * *

"Well, we both know I'm not going to reply," John muttered, leaning back in his chair and staring at the screen, fingers drumming idly on the desk. "Superior brain – Jesus Christ. I'll give _you_ a superior brain..."

He continued to mutter like this for a few minutes, fingers starting to drum faster and faster on the desk as he considered what an utter arsehole this William Holmes was. He re-read the email, laughing without humour and shaking his head several times before he finally stood up and turned away from the laptop. Falling backwards onto the bed, John stared up at the ceiling and felt the last remaining dregs of frustration begin to ebb from his system, an almost physical sensation of it leaving his body tingling through his fingertips until he was once again left with the nothingness.

It had been so nice to _feel_ something.

Within two minutes he was already back at the laptop.

* * *

_William,_

_5:30pm tomorrow suits me. Just tell me when and where._

_John._


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you ENDLESSLY to all of those who have followed and, of course, to that one awesome person who has reviewed so far. Genuinely can't thank you enough.**

**Shorter chapter this time, but so much fun to write nonetheless! ENJOY! For every review I get, I'll kiss the laptop screen. Promise. Reviews are what keep me fired up to go, so if you genuinely want to read more... well, I'll still write regardless, but reviews help me write that little bit faster! :D**

* * *

**Chapter Two**

There was no response.

John waited; he slept as usual, too long, too deep and then awoke to a grey morning, clouds cast across the sky enough that he considered putting the light on – but that would mean having to get out of bed, and that was a thought he didn't particularly relish. Instead he leaned over and pulled the edge of his laptop towards him, brushing his finger over the mousepad and waiting as the screen lit itself up to reveal an empty inbox. Glancing at the bottom right-hand corner – 10am – he wondered if this William guy had changed his mind, perhaps decided that John's obvious reluctance to embark on any sort of journey to academic improvement was simply a sign not to bother with him, and he couldn't really blame the man for that. If John himself couldn't see much of a point in trying, he couldn't blame the egotistical Personal Academic Tutor for not wanting to try either.

So he slept a little more. He got up at around 1pm, forcing himself to go through the motions and shower, ate a handful of cornflakes from the box he kept in his room for when he really couldn't face going to the kitchen and got dressed – clean clothes today, though not what he would usually wear: a hoodie and a favourite pair of jeans that had been too small for him for years but were now fitting quite comfortably since he'd started to lose weight. He crawled back into bed for a little while longer, staring blearily at the laptop perched next to him on the desk chair, but no email from William ever appeared. Unsurprising. He turned himself away from the laptop, facing the wall as he stared at the soul-damagingly boring magnolia paint and slowly let his eyes close into yet another dull drift of sleep.

_~Bing~_

Opening his eyes, drowsy, John lay still on his bed. What time was it? It was still light outside, but his room had the typical murkiness of late afternoon. He played disinterestedly in his mind with the idea of grabbing his phone and checking the time but then, what was the point? He had nothing to do today. Time was irrelevant.

_~Bing~_

This time it sunk in to his mind, the sound. He slowly shifted his body until he could glance over his shoulder; groaning at the black screen, he forced himself to twist until his arm could reach the mousepad, skating his finger over it until the screen began to light up. There, sitting on his taskbar, was a little orange flashing window, something he'd never seen before. He turned properly, frowning, pulling the office chair closer to the bed and moving his face closer to the screen.

_**Holmes, W – Instant Message**_

Eyes widening slightly, John moved the mousepoint to the little flashing bar and clicked it, watching apprehensively as the little window appeared before him on the screen.

_**Holmes, W: **Good afternoon, John._

_**Holmes, W: **Please confirm that you are there and are able to read my messages._

John leaned onto his elbows, still frowning, his fingers moving across the keys.

_**Watson, J: **I'm here, I can see your messages_

He waited.

_**Holmes, W: **I had wondered if you had perhaps forgotten our appointment._

John stared incredulously at the screen; what? Was the guy an idiot?

_**Watson, J: **Well I was kind of waiting for a response from you... I thought you would reply to my email with a place to meet so assumed you'd decided not to go ahead with this tutoring thing_

_**Holmes, W:** I apologise, I should have explained that our sessions would take place via computer. I see no need for us to meet in person when most of the course material is so easily accessible on the university's intranet system._

_**Watson, J:** Doesn't really explain why you didn't bother responding to my email to let me know that you still wanted to do this, though..._

_**Holmes, W:** My intentions to aid you in your academic failures were clear in each e-mail I sent to you, therefore I saw no need to respond. It would have been a perfectly ridiculous waste of my time._

Hardly believing what he was reading, John could not stop the small noise of disbelief that escaped his throat. Was this guy even for real? He found himself not knowing which part of the message to respond to first but, after a quick inward battle, decided to focus on the task at hand rather than attack the man for his tone. That could wait.

_**Watson, J:** I'm sorry, academic failures? I'm still passing the course, if you didn't realise_

_**Holmes, W:** Barely._

_**Holmes, W:**_ _It saddens me that you consider getting less than the equivalent of a 2:2 on your last four essays as a passable grade._

_**Watson, J:** Have you even been to university? A third is a pass. I'm sorry it doesn't match up to your obviously sky-high expectations but a third is considered a pass at any university_

_**Holmes, W:** I am well aware of the grading system, thank you. Yes, I have indeed been to university, in fact I am still in attendance at your current place of study, hence why I am your PAT. I had thought that much was obvious._

_**Holmes, W:** My expectations are only as high as they should be considering your marks before this odd little downfall of yours. You were evidently well on your way to earning the equivalent of a first in your pre-medical year until a month ago, so it grieves me that you consider your current gradings as acceptable. I was under the impression that you were intending to bring your marks back up again, hence our current conversation, however I may have to consider the possibility that I am wrong._

_**Holmes, W:** It is not a concept I'm familiar with._

"Prick," John muttered disbelievingly. "Yet again, an utter prick." He leaned away from the laptop but kept his eyes focused on the words in front of him, hardly believing what he had just read. Did people like this even exist? Was it possible that William Holmes was actually just a troll and that Joanne had never actually recommended anybody to him?

He decided to play it carefully.

_**Watson, J:** So you know my marks then, do you?_

_**Holmes, W:** Yes._

_**Watson, J:** Did Joanne pass them on to you? I wasn't aware that was something she could do_

_**Holmes, W:** It's irrelevant how I came to be in possession of them. What I would like to focus on, if you do intend to attempt to work with me and bring your marks up, is what you are struggling with and to come up with an appropriate learning system from which you can benefit from._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, no, I'd like to know how you got hold of my marks_

_**Holmes, W:** This is a waste of not only my time but also of your own. I would advise that you resist being stubborn, though I know how you love to be so, and instead focus on how to tackle your academic deficiencies._

_**Watson, J:** Wait, what? How the hell do you know if I'm stubborn or not? Who the hell are you?_

_**Holmes, W:** William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I apologise, I had thought this topic had been covered. You do like to waste time, don't you?_

_**Watson, J:** You are actually a total arsehole_

_**Watson, J:** You know what I think? You're just some jumped-up twat who wants to have a bit of a laugh, so you thought you'd hack into my emails or something and now you're using whatever you read to piss me about_

_**Watson, J:** I don't have the energy or the patience to deal with it, and quite frankly you should bugger off and try to get a bit more of a life_

_**Watson, J:** If this is how you like to spend your time then you seriously need to consider jumping off a building or something, because that's really sad, and believe me, I know sad_

Hands shaking, John forced himself to breathe deeply through his nose, trying to distance himself for a moment; the surge was coming on again, that rage of frustration zipping up and down his arms and through his chest as he practically attacked his keyboard with his fingers. He considered closing the conversation window, considered closing the whole damned laptop down so that he could avoid talking to this poisonous ass -

_**Holmes, W:** Yes, you do know sad, don't you? Mm, it's surprising to me that you have no energy considering the fact that you spend most of your days sleeping, avoiding the monotonous routine of life and all the greys and blacks that seem to accompany every waking moment you find yourself trapped within._

_**Holmes, W:** Then again, that's all a part of it, isn't it? Lack of energy, lack of motivation... your patience suffers at the hands of it too, if only because you have little to no patience to process your own opinions these days let alone the opinions of a total stranger to you._

_**Holmes, W:** You tell me to throw myself off a building when in fact it's something that's crossed your mind for yourself, the idea of that final push so that you no longer have to deal with the utter drab and dull of a life you had thought would be so satisfying, so fulfilled. You're so disappointed in yourself, full of guilt for what you think you can no longer achieve and some days you are so very full of those thoughts which you cannot quite comprehend that you allow yourself to think for one, freeing moment that perhaps the answer is to, in fact, just throw yourself off of a building or a bridge and no longer have the capability to think at all._

John's whole body flooded with heat, quickly followed by numbness. His eyes stared, barely seeing as the words just kept coming.

_**Holmes, W:** Perhaps you'd prefer to think me a troll, someone who would go out of their way to intentionally make you miserable. You need that extra little nudge, John, that reason to feel the way that you do. You relish the idea that you have someone to rage at, someone to blame, someone to inspire negative feelings within you because negative feelings are at least better than no feelings at all, correct?_

_**Holmes, W:** I don't doubt your intelligence – the marks that I found by hacking into the staff university portal (an easy feat, I assure you) are proof of just how well you withhold information and the skill you possess to put it across into clear, concise prose. You work hard for the marks you get, yet now you see no reason to work hard whatsoever as your mind is so very proficient at making you feel that any effort would be wasted, that you would fail regardless of how hard you try._

_**Watson, J: **stop_

He could barely type the four letters, hands shaking so hard he had to type them with a single finger.

_**Holmes, W:** I couldn't agree more. Perhaps I can't help you. It's painfully obvious that you're in no position to help yourself academically when you can't even accept what's wrong with you._

_**Watson, J:** you don't know me. you have no idea... you have no right._

_**Holmes, W:** I have as much right as anybody to tell you what you already know._

_**Holmes, W:** Depression is not something to be ashamed of._

_**Watson, J: **stop it. just stop it._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm not a troll, John. I am exactly the person you thought I was last night – an arsehole, as you so delicately put it. I'm not going to tiptoe and pretend to be kind or supportive or even remotely interested in who you are as a person; all I have said to you are the clear, cold facts. I offered to help you academically and the offer still stands, though whether you are at a point where you are ready to attempt such a feat is unknown to me._

_**Holmes, W:** My assumption is that you are not ready._

Slowly, painstakingly careful, John began to finally respond. The frustration had morphed, a veritable rage settling over him and flooding his entire body in heat as the words began to fall onto the screen.

_**Watson, J:** Your assumption?_

_**Watson, J:** You think I give one damn about your assumptions?_

_**Watson, J:** So you hacked into the system and found my marks, essays, whatever else you could get your hands on. Considering you so clearly have no desire to be even remotely appropriate that comes as no surprise, though you can be sure that I'll report you just as soon as I've said all I have to say to you._

_**Watson, J: **How you think you can know all of these things is beyond me. You may in fact be a tutor, in fact I accept that gladly. That doesn't stop you from being a troll, someone who would rather inflict pain and misery than actually be of any use or decency. How Joanne thought you could help me is completely and utterly beyond me, it truly is – do you really think that your clever little deductions are going to impress me? _

_**Watson, J:** Because either you're just a fucking genius at guessing games or you've hacked into my blog, either of which make you the biggest dick in the history of dicks. APOLOGIES if none of this is what you want to hear._

_**Watson, J:** Actually, no. I don't apologise. I have enough to be dealing with, which you CLEARLY know already, and apologising to people like you who live to inflict misery on people who already have far more than their fair share to be getting on with is just not that high on my list of things to do._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, I'm intelligent. Two months ago I could have finished this year with distinction, finished at the top of my class. Maybe I'm not as clever as you obviously are, but I work damned hard and I earn every single damn mark I get._

_**Watson, J:** I don't need you to tell me how to feel about this shitpit that is depression. I can feel whatever the hell I want to feel about it and it's absolutely none of your business whether I feel ashamed of it or not. And yes, if you'd like confirmation that you're right YET AGAIN, I am ashamed of it, of myself, of what I cannot do or achieve because of this monstrous black cloud constantly hanging over me._

_**Watson, J:** I've seen what depression does to people and the lengths people go to escape it._

_**Watson, J:** And I will NOT be one of those people._

_**Watson, J:** Jesus Christ, I have no idea how you can even stand to wake up in the mornings._

Barely a second later -

_**Holmes, W:** Though I appreciate you going out of your way to prove me right, it was unnecessary._

_**Holmes, W:** Shall I assume that you don't wish to go ahead with tutoring?_

Letting out a bellow of barely suppressed rage, John slammed the laptop shut and pushed the desk chair away with all of his might, immense satisfaction coursing through him as the old machine fell from its sitting-place and crashed to the floor. He threw himself back onto the bed, body still trembling hard at the pure self-righteous anger flooding his system, eyes barely able to see the blank ceiling above him as the edges hazed over – so it was true what they said about seeing red when you were angry. Right now it was _all_ he could see.

No, he didn't want to lie down, he was too agitated for that. He pushed himself off of the bed, rocketing to the other side of the room as quickly as he could, letting his shoulder bash against the wardrobe as he passed. The pain was satisfying much as the crashing laptop had been, his lips twisting into an odd, ugly grin as the feel of it. He understood instantly why people let themselves fall into self-destructive habits, drug-use and self-harm and all the things that people grasped onto to survive whilst battling the big black dog that was depression. He felt like he was buzzing, felt almost alive for the first time in months and it was _electrifying_. All this emotion – all right, a single and negative emotion, but an emotion nonetheless – was like a drug, infiltrating his system and making him feel like he could do almost anything.

His eyes found his reflection in the mirror.

Just like that, the emotion left.

Just like that, he was exhausted all over again.

Just like that, he was himself again.

Not the old him. The new one. The depressed one.

Slowly – much as he did anything these days – he shuffled back to the bed, adrenaline burned out so quickly that he felt almost as if he was going to pass out from it; he barely processed his body falling onto the unmade mess of a bed, eyes already closed as he curled into his usual ball, fingers reaching up and crawling over his face until it was completely covered, blocking out any light that was left in the sky and letting him retreat back into the darkness of his whirring, wheeling mind.

He passed out within seconds, the faceless words of William Holmes still imprinted on his eyelids as he drifted off.


	3. Chapter 3

**Yeah, okay, I can't seem to stop myself right now. -_- Hope you're all enjoying so far - here's the third chapter! R&R's appreciated!**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

"John! Jesus Christ, John! Where've you been, mate?"

Forcing what he hoped was a believable smile, John stopped in the middle of the path and looked into the face of his best friend, the familiar pressure of desire to avoid all things social weighing like an anchor in his stomach. "Mike, hi – you doing all right?"

Mike Stamford's small, expressive eyes were dancing with evident relief as he reached out and clapped a hand on John's shoulder, shaking his head back and forth. "Well I'm fine, same as always, but... John, you've been like a dead man! Haven't spoken to you in weeks, called about twenty times -"

"Phone's broken," John quickly lied, knowing his excuse to be lame but lacking the motivation to think of something better. "It's knackered, can't get calls or texts."

The man opposite nodded his acceptance, squeezing John's shoulder lightly; the smaller man fought the urge to knock it away. "You should get it fixed or something, it's been bloody weird without you around! Missed one hell of a party last week, Greg threw an absolute _blinder_!"

"Mmm. Really."

"God, yeah, was brilliant – got some girls number," Mike added casually, clearly elated but determined not to show it, "and got absolutely bladdered. He's doing another one next Friday, you should come – Mary'll probably be there."

Ah, Mary. His crush, at least before the depression took away any form of interest in another living being. He rolled his eyes at himself, realising too late that Mike could see it - he leapt into the fray of conversation as enthusiastically as he could, nodding hard. "Oh, yeah, right, Mary! I do... I do like Mary. Mm. Sounds like a really good idea."

"Yeah?" Mike tilted his head slightly to the side. "You don't have to, I know your workload is pretty tough right now..."

"No, it sounds... great. It sounds really great. Party at Greg's, Friday." John forced another smile. "Fantastic."

Mike grinned his genuine, 'always happy to see you' grin and clapped John once more on the shoulder. "Brilliant, mate, brilliant. Always a better party with you there. I can meet you at yours first, have a few pre-drinks?"

"No!" John's quick response was too quick, too loud. He cleared his throat, feeling his hands start to shake at the effort of it all. "No, I... I'll meet you at the party, got things to do on Friday but yeah, sure, as soon as I'm done... I'll be there. For sure."

"Okay, no problem, we can meet there." Mike's smile faded somewhat, eyes carefully taking in John's pale face. "You don't have to come, y'know. You look exhausted."

"Yeah, well, got a load of work to do and not enough time to do it," John pushed out with a laugh, shoving his hands deep into his jacket pocket and rocking back and forth on his heels; the movement calmed him a little. "You know what it's like, you remember your first year."

Nodding, his friend took a glance around him and then looked back to John. "I remember, it's mental, absolutely mental. If you need a hand with anything...?"

He fought down the instant, impolite rebuttal. Needless to say he wasn't big on being offered help these days. "Appreciate it. I'll err, let you know."

"Right." The two young men stood opposite each other, staring awkwardly until finally Mike took a step away. "I should probably get to my lecture, but if you get your phone fixed just drop me a text about next Friday, yeah?"

"Sure," John agreed readily, nodding and taking a similar-spaced step away from his older friend. "I'll be in touch."

He waited until Mike had waved cheerily – though slightly less enthusiastically than perhaps he would have before John's disappearance – until he let out the breath he held between his lips, hissing into an aggressive-sounding sigh of relief; his shoulders dropped, the realisation of how tense his body had become only sinking in as his muscles groaned at him in complaint. He began to walk the slow path back to his accommodation, already having his blinkers up against the multitude of students passing by.

There was no way he'd make it to the party.

**-X-**

_~Bing~_

"No," John mumbled, stirring in his bed amidst the mountain of course material he'd been attempting to read before falling into his usual late afternoon nap, waving his hand towards his (slightly dented) laptop which now (after three days of sitting on the floor) was sitting back on the chair. He kept his eyes closed, uninterested in whoever was bothering him, pulling his arms in tight to his chest.

_~Bing~_

"I said _no_," he moaned quietly, eyes flying open and looking at the typically black screen opposite him; he let himself look at it blearily for a few more moments, wondering if it was the usual weekly influx of emails from Joanne and her team of nagging tutors but not really feeling too fussed either way – the emails were getting more and more frequent, less and less gentle and far more on the side of 'come to seminars or we'll suspend you' than 'let us help you'... it was starting to weigh down on him, yet there was nothing he felt he could do. He'd managed to submit another essay, another below-par piece of work, and he was certain that this time he'd probably managed to flunk it completely. Yet another reason not to look at the emails. He didn't want to know how badly he'd messed this one up.

_~Bing~_

"Fine, FINE." Reluctantly and full of a muted weariness he forced himself to sit up, pulling the laptop off of the chair and leaning his back up against the headboard as he rested the thing in his lap and moved the cursor until his screen powered back into life. What he saw, of course, wasn't exactly what he had been expecting and was possibly even more unwelcome than nagging emails from his tutors.

_**Holmes, W:** Good evening, John._

_**Holmes, W:** I assume you're probably sleeping._

_**Holmes, W:** I also assume that you didn't make it to your seminars today._

"Why are you talking to me?" His voice in the darkness – god, how long had he fallen asleep for this time? - was loud, too loud. He shuffled himself slightly on the bed and waited, seeing from the corner of the conversation window that the man was typing again.

_**Holmes, W:** I'm still willing to offer my services, should you need them. Joanne e-mailed me again today. She's rather concerned that she hasn't heard from you since your meeting last week._

"None of your business," John mumbled.

_**Holmes, W:** I understand that you wish to keep your distance from people and, dare I say it, that your depression has perhaps worsened since our last conversation, however I do believe that it is important for you to maintain your studies should you wish to avoid regretting your actions later. Please be aware that I know it is a struggle, but with a well-built support system you can move your life forward to a similar status as before, should that be your desire._

John's fingers found themselves typing before he could stop himself.

_**Watson, J:** Because it's just that easy, isn't it?_

_**Holmes, W:** I didn't say that._

Despite himself, John's eyes re-read the message and began to type once more, rephrasing.

_**Watson, J:** I don't want a support system. I can get through this without anyone's help._

_**Watson, J:** Though I'll thank you for your concern._

John narrowed his eyes at the screen, cursing his fingers. He didn't want to thank the man for _anything_. Damn his good upbringing.

_**Holmes, W:** Don't do that, you'll only regret it. You're probably already regretting it._

_**Watson, J: **And there we are once more, the mind-reader hits the mark dead-centre. You must love being eternally right._

_**Holmes, W:** Not always._

_**Holmes, W:** I mean, yes, I am always right of course, but it's not always satisfying. I would much rather you were mentally sound and therefore able to accept my help so that I could avoid Joanna Harvey's constant reminders to offer my aid to you._

Was the man completely incapable of saying the right thing without it being twisted into something thoughtless? Even John in the midst of a depression was better at phrasing things than him, and that was truly saying something.

_**Watson, J:** You just don't know how to talk to people at all, do you?_

_**Holmes, W:** People don't contact me for my social skills, they contact me for my knowledge and ways in which I can cultivate theirs._

_**Watson, J: **I'd feel sorry for you if I didn't still want to punch you in the face._

_**Holmes, W:** I'd rather you did neither, though if I have to pick I'd almost certainly go for the latter. Regardless, we're veering very rapidly off-topic and I would rather use our time efficiently. Do you require my services?_

_**Watson, J:** I thought I'd made it quite clear from our last delightful conversation that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in your sevices. I could refresh your memory for you, if you want?_

_**Holmes, W:** I'm sure it would be most beneficial for us both if you were to act on the indignation I clearly inspire within you, however I would far rather set out a learning schedule for you and arrange bi-weekly meetings with you, on here of course, so that we can get to work on your academic struggle._

_**Watson, J:** Struggle. I see you've realised that 'downfall' and 'failure' aren't the best words to motivate me._

_**Holmes, W:** Mock me if it makes you feel better, however the fact that I have indeed altered my way of speaking is surely a sign that I am willing to make an effort to be of assistance._

_**Holmes, W:** Without inspiring the wish to punch me in the face._

Was he... trying to be funny?

_**Watson, J:** I don't like you. You're smug, arrogant and clearly have a God complex._

_**Holmes, W:** The former two are true, though the latter needs some rethinking considering God doesn't exist._

_**Watson, J:** Can you speak normally for two seconds?! You are a human being, right? Not just a robot programmed to annoy people out of their wits?_

_**Holmes, W:** It is true that some days I believe I am less human than the rest of you, though I'd imagine it's not in the same insulting way that you're insinuating._

_**Watson, J:** Jesus Christ._

_**Holmes, W:** He doesn't exist either._

_**Watson, J:** Right, okay, you're starting to irritate me now._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm shocked that it took this long. Shall we arrange a schedule?_

John stared at the words, shaking his head slowly back and forth as he took in the man's pure, ridiculous ignorance.

_**Watson, J:** Do you genuinely think I'm going to say yes?_

_**Holmes, W:** Without a doubt._

_**Watson, J:** You really are frustratingly arrogant, aren't you? What on earth makes you think I'm going to want to accept help from someone I can't stand? I've barely spoken to you and already you're at least cutting it close to the least favourite person I've ever met in my life!_

_**Holmes, W:** It's slightly irritating when I'm forced to answer questions you've already answered for yourself._

_**Holmes, W:** The fact that you dislike me is precisely the reason you will agree to having me as your Personal Academic Tutor. Your depression is a vice on your brain, disallowing you any chance to communicate or work to your usual standards. Up until our previous conversation and probably every conversation since, the closest thing to any sort of emotion you've felt is hopelessness, perhaps desperation at points when you've felt cornered, pressured, correct? _

_**Holmes, W:** Recall how you felt during and perhaps even after our conversation last week. Would you deny that for the first time in at least eight weeks you felt the stirrings of emotion, of anger, frustration, rage? My manner pushed you to the point of abandoning our conversation after I'd asked you a direct question, and considering you seem to restrain yourself from saying exactly what you'd like to say when you'd like to say it out of desire to be polite... well, that leads me to think that whatever sort of feeling I inspire within you is strong enough to motivate you to break away from your depression and react._

_**Holmes, W:** Momentarily, of course. I wouldn't dream of alluding to your depression as something so easily lifted._

_**Holmes, W:** Is what I have assumed so far correct?_

Whether he wanted to or not, John had to admit even to himself that he was slightly impressed. How could the man have any idea how he had been reacting? Reluctantly he began to reply.

_**Watson, J: **As much as I don't want to admit it, yes._

_**Holmes, W:** Did you perhaps get up? Move around? Perhaps damage some property, or yourself? _

_**Holmes, W**: Did you realise what you were feeling only to lose grip of it almost instantaneously and sink back into your depression? Fall into a dreamless sleep not long after?_

This was insane. No one guessed right this many times without there being something more to it.

_**Watson, J:** Are you spying on me or something?_

_**Holmes, W:** I'll take that as a yes on all counts. I do hope you didn't hurt yourself too severely._

_**Watson, J:** What?_

_**Watson, J: **Oh_

_**Watson, J:** My laptop, not me. It fell on the floor and I enjoyed it._

_**Holmes, W:** Perfectly natural response when you're feeling angry._

_**Watson, J:** I know that, no need to patronise me._

_**Holmes, W:** That wasn't my intention, though it's natural for you to be defensive in your current state._

_**Watson, J:** Look, if we're going to do this PAT thing you're going to have to stop being a know-it-all bastard. I hate arrogance. And patronising arseholes._

_**Holmes, W:** I take it that this is your acceptance of our arrangement?_

John stared back at what he had written, re-reading it three times for good measure; yes, it certainly sounded that way, definitely seemed as if he'd subconsciously made his decision... as much as he hated to say it, William had made some frustratingly accurate points. John couldn't fail to recall that blinding moment of clarity that had buzzed through him during the first few moments after he'd let the laptop crash to the ground, nor how clear his mind had felt when he'd bashed his shoulder against the wardrobe (no need to tell William about _that_) or how incredibly motivated he'd felt until he'd glanced into the mirror.

There was definitely the possibility of _sense_ behind what the guy had said, even if how he knew all of this was completely unknown.

_**Watson, J:** I don't know. I've never... needed help before. In any sort of way._

_**Watson, J:** It's embarrassing, I can't deny it._

_**Holmes, W:** Then you should consider yourself considerably stronger than the rest of our species. It is the mark of a strong man to admit when he needs assistance; the weaker of us fall to addictions and survival strategies that further prolong the damage inflicted._

_**Watson, J:** That's probably the nicest thing you've said to me so far._

_**Holmes, W:** I don't say it to be nice, I say it because it is undeniably true. I will always be truthful, whether you want me to be or not. _

_**Watson, J: **That sounds ominous._

_**Holmes, **W: You don't strike me as the type of person to be afraid of hearing the truth._

_**Watson, J:** And you don't strike me as the type of person who cares either way._

_**Holmes, W:** You're wrong about that. Cowards exist to irritate me._

_**Watson, J:** Then it pains me to say that your instincts are right... I'm not afraid to hear the truth, no matter what it might be._

_**Holmes, W:** Good. This may just work out._

He was still irritating. He still was frustrating beyond belief. Still. That was better than the usual bout of nothing.

_**Watson, J:** What do I need to do first?_

_**Holmes, W:** I've already put together a learning schedule for you during our conversation; it's easy enough to understand, each session is colour-coded depending on the type of studying I expect you to do._

_**Watson, J:** Type? There are different types of studying?_

_**Holmes, W:** Dear Lord._

_**Watson, J:** Careful, he doesn't exist, remember?_

_**Holmes, W:** At least I know you can absorb written information easily enough. During some sessions you'll need to simply read texts that I've taken from the intranet and edited (there are so many errors in the course material that I'm surprised we manage to make doctors and scientists out of anyone who studies here, truly); other times I'll provide you with presentations to watch, lectures to listen to, ask you to take notes in various ways._

_**Watson, J:** Why exactly do I need to do all that?_

_**Holmes, W:** I need to find out which way you absorb information best, hence the different formats of said information; taking notes in different ways – flow charts, diagrams, bullet points, mind-clouds – will help me ascertain how your mind processes the information once it's there. It's all relevant, I assure you._

_**Watson, J:** Blimey. All right, then what happens?_

_**Holmes, W:** Twice a week we'll have meetings on here to discuss your work – which of course means you'll submit your work to me as soon as it is complete – and together we can assess what needs doing and how to move on from there._

_**Holmes, W:** When you are issued an essay deadline (all of which I am well aware, so please don't think you can avoid doing them) you will put the skills you've been developing to use and submit three separate drafts of your essay to me which I will then comment on and send back to you for your personal evaluation and editing._

_**Watson, J:** Do you really have time to be doing all of this? Didn't you say you're studying at the university too?_

_**Holmes, W:** I will set aside time to assist you._

_**Watson, J:** What are you studying?_

_**Holmes, W:** A variety of subjects. It should be of no concern to you._

_**Watson, J:** Right, well, that told me._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm sending over your learning schedule now._

_**Watson, J:** Ok. Are you going to be keeping Joanne in the loop about all of this?_

_**Holmes, W:** Only if I think it absolutely necessary. Just as she only divulged certain information about you to me, I will keep most of what we cover between us – it will only be if there is no obvious improvement over a certain space of time that I will consider allowing her to become more involved._

_**Watson, J:** Right, ok. Just wondered. Either way is fine._

_**Holmes, W:** Did you receive your schedule?_

_**Watson, J:** Uh... yes, it's in my inbox now._

_**Holmes, W:** Good. Look it over tomorrow morning. There shouldn't be anything on there that you can't understand._

_**Watson, J:** Will do._

_**Holmes, W:** What times do you usually sleep during the week?_

_**Watson, J:** Sorry, what?_

_**Holmes, W:** So that we can arrange our bi-weekly appointments._

_**Watson, J:** Right, yeah, of course. Uh, it's not really set in stone._

_**Holmes, W:** The reason I ask is that it is absolutely imperative that you stick to our schedule. Should you miss more than two appointments I will be forced to step down as your PAT. I have no patience for time-wasters._

_**Watson, J:** You and me both. Well, how about Tuesday's and Friday's? Late afternoon?_

_**Holmes, W:** Are you certain that won't interrupt your afternoon sleep?_

_**Watson, J:** How you know that I don't know. I don't think I want to know. Yes, I'll be sure to keep an alarm set so that I don't miss them._

_**Holmes, W:** So, 5:30pm on Tuesday's and Friday's? Does that work for you?_

_**Watson, J:** I've got nothing else to do._

_**Holmes, W:** Good. I'll leave you to your sleep, then, unless you have any questions?_

_**Watson, J:** How do you know my sleeping patterns?_

_**Holmes, W:** Lucky guess._

_**Watson, J:** I have a feeling that none of your deductions are lucky guesses, to be honest..._

_**Holmes, W:** Anything else?_

_**Watson, J:** No, not that I can think of._

_**Holmes, W:** Until Tuesday, then. Be sure to stick to the schedule. I'll e-mail you the necessary course content at 6am each morning._

_**Watson, J:** Ok. _

_**Watson, J:** Thanks._

_**Holmes, W:** Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline_.

For a while after William had left, sitting in the darkness with only the light of the laptop keeping him company, John found himself staring at the computer screen and reading the words back to himself until they no longer made sense.

_Goodnight, John_.

He couldn't remember the last time someone had been around late enough to say that to him.


	4. Chapter 4

**I am buzzing ~so hard~ after writing this chapter. I don't think I even care anymore if people review, I am having TOO MUCH FUN! :P (Okay, but I still love reviews. I love them. I need them. I love _you..._no, that's creepy.)**

**Also, I write slow fics. I do. I update fast, sure, but I'm not the kind of person to write a fanfic JUST for slashy smut/fluff etc. The build up is the best bit in my opinion, and I know that a slow-moving fic can put people off but honestly, I do believe it's worth it. Don't give up. Keep reading. More importantly... enjoy. :)**

**ONWARDS!**

**Chapter Four**

The first day of attempting William's learning schedule was... well, _interesting_ to put it mildly. John had stared at the colour-coded spreadsheet of intensity for at least five minutes, certain that there must have been some sort of mistake – there was at least five hours work included on the first day alone, including reading course material that John had never even set eyes on before which was covered in notes that ranged from insanely detailed to snarky and sarcastic.

What was most odd was that, with the inclusion of William's notes, John actually found himself drawn into what he was reading. Instead of finding himself faced with the usual drone of facts and statistics, he had the added amusement of a running commentary along with some very clever and unexpected analysis that he never in a million years would have considered himself. Rather than lying on his bed and finding himself waking up with a sheet of paper stuck to his lips as he had done the last time he had attempted to read anything course-relevant, he was sitting up with a notebook at his side, bullet-points being jotted down every time he found himself intrigued by something new. Every now and then he would find himself making his own comments in response to William's notes, though whether he would include those on his typed-up notes he wasn't sure. William, despite the odd humour John was finding between the lines of the more sarcastic commentary, seemed the type of person to take learning very seriously and John assumed that he wouldn't find it altogether amusing to see the things that John was responding with.

By the time the first day was done – notes typed up with a few of the less jokey of his own opinions and responses left in – he was completely wiped out; there had been a few moments whilst compiling his notes that he had wanted to quickly fit in a nap, moments where his mind had drifted off and he'd found himself staring blankly at the door and wondering why he was even bothering when he was still likely to fail the course after the extreme damage he'd already done to his grades. It was undeniable, however, that once he'd sent off the notes to William with a single, impersonal line of text (_please find attached a copy of notes taken_) he actually felt as if he'd achieved something, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a good long while. Though he couldn't stop himself from collapsing onto his bed afterwards and falling into his usual fitful, dreamless sleep, he knew that in the very least he may not feel quite so despondent when he awoke.

When he did awaken it was to a sound he was slowly becoming accustomed to, whether he liked it or not.

_~Bing~_

Rather than battling his usual reluctance, John reached for the chair and wheeled it towards him straight away.

* * *

**To:** _**Watson, J**_

**From: _Holmes, W_**

**Date: **_April 21st 2013 – 9:10pm_

**Subject: **_RE: Study Pack 1 notes_

**ATTACHED_: studpack1notesforwilliam(1).doc_**

_John,_

_Please find attached a copy of your notes with additional comments from myself (these have been written in red to ensure clarity)._

_Sincerely,_

_William Holmes_

_PS: Your own insights in response to mine were interesting. I have responded to these too._

* * *

The tiniest of smiles twitching on John's lips, he double-clicked on the attachment and found himself looking at what no longer seemed to be his own notes but rather a huge mash of red amidst lines of his own black dotted here and there; he stared at the screen incredulously, hardly knowing whether to laugh or swear.

Despite still doing the latter, he began to read. Unsurprisingly, William had once again managed to turn what was an uninteresting mass of writing into something vaguely (all right, more than vaguely) entertaining. Over half of the added notes were genuinely helpful, full of tweaks to his own comments which not only managed to explain his points in a more concise manner but explained how to write his thoughts down better in note-form in order for his brain to then regurgitate the information successfully into an essay; what really surprised John, however, were the rest of William's comments. Somehow bouncing off of John's own gentle attempts at humour (most of which were originally responses to William's snarkier edits on the course material), the man had created what John could only describe as mild banter, sometimes even being somewhat complimentary and congratulatory in their tone.

He set to work on a response as soon as he had finished.

* * *

_William,_

_Thanks for the advice, it's actually very helpful. I have to ask though – were my notes actually any good? Because you essentially turned my eight pages of notes into eighteen..._

_John._

* * *

Not thirty seconds later:

_~Bing~_

_**Holmes, W:** I'm glad that you found the notes useful. Your notes weren't terrible, though you're still evidently having trouble focusing properly._

_**Holmes, W:** That's not a criticism, by the way. I was expecting far worse._

Rolling his eyes, John quickly typed out a reply.

_**Watson, J:** For once I'm going to ignore my instincts and instead just accept that you genuinely meant 'not terrible' and 'expecting far worse' in a nice way..._

_**Holmes, W:** Technically I didn't mean it in a nice way, but equally I didn't mean it in an insulting way. It's simply the truth._

_**Holmes, W:** Are your instincts really to assume I meant it in a derogatory way?_

John leaned back for a moment, actually considering this. Had his forethought really been to take it as an insult? He ran his foggy mind back, trying to pinpoint what he had actually felt but found himself unable to decipher any emotion or reaction.

_**Watson, J:** I don't really know what my instincts were. I think I just automatically expect you to say something... inappropriate._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm not sure about inappropriate._

_**Holmes, W:** But, I did say yesterday that I would always be truthful, and I suppose that many people would take some of the things I say to be intentionally thoughtless or cruel._

_**Holmes, W: **I hope that perhaps one day you'll cease being one of those people. Were it not for the natural defensiveness which is part and parcel of your depression, I expect that you would be far more accepting of the way in which I impart my thoughts and opinions. You strike me as the honest type yourself._

How did he always know...?

_**Watson, J:** I think you're probably right._

_**Watson, J:** I can't say that I'm quite as... blunt as you can be at times_

_**Watson, J:** But I'm definitely not the type to beat around the bush._

_**Holmes, W:** Evidently. Your 'fuck off' is still very clear in my mind._

_**Watson, J:** Would you believe me if I told you that I'd just had a bad day?_

_**Holmes, W:** I'd believe you if only because I'm relatively sure that every day is a bad day for you at this moment in time._

John shifted uncomfortably in his position on the bed. Maybe it was the dark of the room, the feeling that he'd spent hours with this stranger today merely from reading comments on course material or simply because the man was so spot-on with every assumption he made... he wasn't sure. Whatever it was, though, had made what William had ascertained just a little too... close.

His silence was quickly analysed.

_**Holmes, W:** I've made you uncomfortable. I apologise._

_**Holmes, W:** Perhaps I should be more careful with what I say to you. Just because it may be true doesn't necessarily mean I have to voice my thoughts aloud – or type them and press 'send', as the case is here._

_**Holmes, W:** I understand that my... 'blunt' approach may not be comfortable to hear in your current situation._

William's awkward attempt at empathy was both surprising and something distinctly unfamiliar that John couldn't quite define; in his current state of mental being he wasn't sure he would be able to regardless of how much thought he gave to it, so he let it slide and instead began to type slowly back, determined to phrase his thoughts correctly.

_**Watson, J:** I think I would rather that you're honest with me instead of holding back out of fear of hurting my feelings. I'm not an overly sensitive person, even in my current 'situation', and I think that it's only fair that if you have to be helping me out the way you've been told to that you at least should be entitled to be yourself._

_**Watson, J:** Yes, you did make me uncomfortable, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't say those sorts of things. I'm not going to collapse just because you said something painfully accurate._

_**Holmes, W:** Your silence from before leads me to think that perhaps there was more than one reason you felt discomfort at my words._

_**Holmes, W:** Though you don't have to tell me either way._

_**Holmes, W:** It would also be prudent for you to be aware that I am not helping you merely because I was asked._

John found himself re-reading the words back to himself, head battling with which to respond to first; glancing around the room in an attempt to gather his thoughts together, he decided he should probably sit up properly with the laptop rather than run the risk of falling asleep. As he moved to rest his back against the pillow he quickly propped up against the wall, pulling the warm laptop into his lap and shifting until he was comfortable, he remained oblivious to the fact that for the first time in two months he was choosing not to sleep in order to continue a conversation with someone, as well as actively trying to think of words to say because he _wanted_ to say them rather than because he had to fill an awkward silence.

He remained ignorant of this as he rubbed his slightly bleary eyes and began his response.

_**Watson, J:** Sorry about that, was sitting up so I wouldn't fall asleep._

_**Watson, J:** You're right about there being other reasons, though I don't know how to put them into words without them sounding... odd, I don't know._

_**Holmes, W:** Do you need to sleep?_

_**Watson, J:** No, I'm fine_

_**Holmes, W:** I know that you would usually be sleeping at this point in the evening, so please don't hold off on my account._

_**Watson, J:** I really am fine, thanks. And I really would still love to know how you know my sleeping patterns..._

_**Holmes, W:** Are you going to try and explain your reasons for your earlier discomfort to me? Or would you prefer to move on to another topic?_

A small jolt of surprise went through John: there were other topics up for discussion? He bypassed this for now, however, trying to keep on track.

_**Watson, J:** I can try, but it's going to sound weird, ok? I'm not very good at this sort of thing_

_**Holmes, W:** I'm sure I don't need to tell you that I'm not well-versed in the art of communication either. I shall try and keep an objective mind._

_**Watson, J:** Fair point._

_**Watson, J:** It's just that today... okay, let's put it into perspective. In the last two months, I can probably count on one hand, maybe two at a stretch, the number of prolonged conversations I've had with people._

_**Watson, J:** The course content you asked me to read, you'd written so much on there and reading it all was like reading in your voice_

_**Watson, J:** And I know, I haven't heard your voice, so that sounds utterly ridiculous. But it's like when you read anything that someone else has written, you read it as if they're saying it, right?_

_**Watson, J:** So essentially I've spent at least five hours today constantly reading and taking notes on something you've written. If you take into account the lack of social contact I've had recently and so consider my reading something you've taken the care to write in detail on as having social contact..._

_**Watson, J:** God, this sounds insane_

_**Watson, J:** Yes, I know, God doesn't exist_

_**Watson, J:** Damn, I've lost my train of thought. Where was I?_

_**Watson, J:** Right_

_**Watson, J:** I'll just have to say it, just try not to judge how it sounds_

_**Watson, J:** It feels almost as if I've spent half of my day with you._

_**Watson, J:** And because of that, when you mentioned about how every day feels like a bad day to me, it felt almost as if it was someone I actually know saying it to me._

_**Watson, J:** Which is ridiculous, I barely know you, I don't know you at all, but there you are. It felt like having someone you know telling you something you barely let yourself think about, and although from a stranger it would simply be thoughtless and inappropriate, instead it felt as it would coming from someone who knows me, so... it felt... intimate._

_**Watson, J:** And I'm not exactly good with intimacy even when I'm not depressed._

_**Watson, J:** I really want to delete all of that and take it back_

_**Watson, J: **Though you can't physically do both, so I suppose I'd just like to take it back, because quite honestly I'm re-reading that back to myself and thinking of how completely ridiculous it sounds._

_**Watson, J:** So, there it is, because I can't take it back. I just hope you kept your observant mind as open as possible._

_**Watson, J:** Bollocks, I sound like a total twat, don't I?_

He was trembling, much the same as he had been just a few days before whilst talking to the same man; his hands were shaking as he pulled them away from the keyboard and laced his fingers together, forcing them to stay steady, though this did nothing to alleviate the odd shaky sensation in his abdomen and the little quivers running up and down his legs. This time, however, frustration wasn't the cause. He recognised the unwelcome emotion as vulnerability, or perhaps it was closer to simply the physical reaction than the actual emotion – either way, he knew from the way his mind now buzzed and his limbs shivered that it had most likely be the sheer effort of revealing something like that to someone after months of keeping things so close to his chest, heavily protected. It wasn't as if it was something deeply personal, in fact it was almost laughable that this was his reaction, such a severe one as it was...

_**Holmes, W:** What was the other reason?_

John stared blankly at the screen, gripping his hands tighter against his stomach. Wasn't he going to respond to what he had just said? At all?

_**Holmes, W:** If you want to tell me._

Shaking his head slightly, John separated his hands and held them, still trembling, over the keyboard. What could it hurt? He already sounded like a rambling idiot.

_**Watson, J:** The dark. Things always seem more intense in the dark. Or that's how I've always felt anyway, especially recently._

Well, that was that. He'd truly hammered the nail in his sanity coffin with that one. He waited, huddled in his too-large hoodie, for a response.

_**Holmes, W:** Thank you for telling me._

_**Watson, J:** I don't know why I did, but I suppose you're honest with me so I should repay the favour whenever possible._

_**Watson, J:** Though I'm surprised you're thanking me when essentially I just rambled on like a mad man._

_**Holmes, W:** After such a prolonged amount of time without social contact it's only natural that opening up would inspire a long-winded approach to explaining yourself._

_**Holmes, W:** I found it all rather informative, actually._

_**Watson, J:** Informative? In what way?_

_**Holmes, W:** Nothing that you need to worry about._

_**Watson, J:** Well, I am slightly concerned in case you've read something wrong in what I've said..._

_**Holmes, W:** I haven't._

_**Watson, J:** How can you be so sure?_

_**Holmes, W:** Have I ever been wrong before?_

_**Watson, J:** ...all right, fair point._

_**Holmes, W:** Wasn't there something else you wanted to ask me about?_

John's mind went temporarily blank; he scrolled back through the conversation, muttering aloud to himself.

"No... mm... god, did I really say that?... oh right, yeah, there we go. Blimey, he's a bloody mind-reader..."

_**Watson, J:** First of all, do you have cameras planted in my room?_

_**Holmes, W:** Certainly not. I'd never attack your privacy in such a tasteless way._

_**Watson, J:** I'm going to pretend that you aren't insinuating that you'd attack my privacy in a less tasteful way..._

_**Holmes, W:** If you'd prefer._

_**Watson, J:** Please tell me you haven't hacked into my computer, because if you can hack into the university staff portal then god knows how quickly you could get into mine..._

_**Holmes, W:** Wasn't there something you wanted to ask me, John? It is getting rather late._

John glanced at the clock – hell, he wasn't wrong! He felt the exhaustion settle onto him like a vice at the simple acknowledgement of the time, so hard and fast and familiar that he had to fight to keep his concentration on the screen.

_**Watson, J:** Right, yeah, sorry._

_**Watson, J:** You said earlier that you weren't helping me just because you were asked._

_**Holmes, W:** I did say that, yes._

_**Watson, J:** What do you mean by that?_

_**Holmes, W:** I think it's fairly self-explanatory._

_**Watson, J:** Humour me, my mind isn't exactly up to snuff right now_

_**Holmes, W:** If I must._

_**Holmes, W:** When I am asked if I can take a student on and aid them in their academic studies, I am within my rights to refuse a student should I choose to. Sometimes I refuse them straight away, other times I'll send them the same e-mail I sent you last week and decide after receiving their response._

_**Holmes, W:** Evidently, I chose not to refuse you._

_**Holmes, W:** Hence why I said that I wasn't helping you just because I was asked._

_**Watson, J:** ...right..._

_**Watson, J:** So why did you accept me?_

_**Watson, J:** I mean, seriously, I was a total GIT to you_

_**Holmes, W:** That's one way of putting it._

_**Watson, J:** So why?_

_**Holmes, W:** It's late. You should probably get some sleep, you're practically falling asleep over your laptop as it is._

Rubbing his sore eyes hard with his fingers, John cleared his throat, determined to stay awake. This time he didn't even bother questioning how William could possibly know how his body was slowly curling further and further towards the laptop.

_**Watson, J:** Aren't you going to answer my question?_

_**Holmes, W:** Not today._

_**Watson, J:** Why?_

_**Holmes, W:** Perhaps another night._

_**Watson, J:** Oh, come on. I'm awake!_

_**Holmes, W:** Barely._

John leaned back against the pillow, knowing himself to be defeated. There probably wasn't a man or woman on this earth who could force someone like William Holmes to do something he didn't want to do – he didn't need a degree to work that one out.

_**Watson, J:** All right. I'll sleep. Got to be up bright and early to make sure I get your next study pack after all!_

_**Holmes, W:** Do you have highlighters? You'll need them for tomorrow's notes._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, I've got four or five rolling around my room somewhere._

_**Holmes, W:** Good._

As John sat staring sleepily at the screen, ready to disappear, he suddenly had a question pop into his mind, one he couldn't believe he hadn't actually thought to ask yet.

_**Watson, J:** Wait, are you still there?_

_**Holmes, W:** Yes._

_**Watson, J:** Can I ask you one more question?_

_**Holmes, W:** You can, though I can't promise that I'll answer._

_**Watson, J:** It's nothing obscenely personal or anything, it's just that I only just thought to ask... how old are you?_

There was a noticeable gap in time before William started typing back.

_**Holmes, W:** Some would consider that a personal question._

_**Watson, J:** Would it help if I told you that I'm 23?_

_**Holmes, W:** It makes no difference whatsoever._

_**Holmes, W:** Though now you've awakened my curiosity... how old do you think I am?_

_**Watson, J:** Not sure you want me to answer that!_

_**Holmes, W:** Now you absolutely must tell me._

_**Holmes, W:** To say that and not tell me is just cruel, John._

_**Watson, J:** Well, if I had to guess... I'd say you're about thirty-five...?_

_**Watson, J:** Am I close?_

Yet another noticeable gap of time.

_**Holmes, W:** Not particularly close, no._

_**Watson, J:** Oh, what?! Older?! Not that that's a bad thing, I suppose you do talk like someone in their forties..._

_**Holmes, W:** Not older._

_**Holmes, W:** And I talk like anyone who knows how to correctly distribute the English language, though if that marks me as someone in their forties I suppose that's just a burden I'll have to bear._

_**Watson, J:** Oh, so you're closer to my age?_

_**Holmes, W:** Yes, give or take a few years._

_**Watson, J:** Wow._

_**Holmes, W:** Is your curiosity now quenched? Is your mind clear enough of questions that you can go to sleep?_

John found himself with a sleepy, so-tiny-it-almost-isn't-there grin curving the corners of his mouth up slightly, nodding despite knowing William could not see. Twenty-six, eh? He seriously hadn't seen THAT coming.

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, I'm pretty tired._

_**Watson, J:** Thanks for tonight – for the notes._

_**Watson, J:** And the chat._

He waited, barely able to keep his eyes open as he watched the little '_Holmes, W is typing...'_ icon flashing, rocking from side to side slightly in his determination to stay awake. After about a minute of watching the icon, it finally stopped, before:

_**Holmes, W:** Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._

Not for the first time that evening John found himself staring at the screen in sleepy confusion, even leaning forward to look at the words from a closer perspective. What had William been typing for a full minute before? Surely it hadn't taken him that long to write _goodnight_?

He simply couldn't think about it, not now: he was literally on the verge of sleep, and if he fell asleep as he was now it was almost a certainty that his laptop would end up on the floor again, only this time it would undoubtedly wake him up with a jump and put him in a terrible mood. Slowly he plopped the laptop back onto the desk chair, not bothering to change out of his hoodie and jeans as he set the pillow back flat on his bed and kicked the covers out from underneath him until he could wrap them around himself, yawning heavily as he did so. His hazy, sleep-desperate eyes found the laptop screen one last time before he shut them and found his way instantly into a not-so-dreamless sleep, re-reading the last line to himself before his mind gave out and his body relaxed.

For the first time in a while, he actually had a dream; it wasn't very clear, nor did it make much sense – it was a courtroom, John sitting off to one side as person after person filed in with papers clutched in their hands, walking up to where the Judge sat with a blurred face and no discernible details. Each person would hand their papers to the man, waiting as he looked them over before, every time, he would look down at them with a smirk and give a resounding, echoing: "No!"

It was simply this, over and over; it eventually became dull, enough so that dream-John stood up from his place in the gallery and joined the line of people, no papers in his hands as he shuffled along bit by bit until finally he was standing facing the Judge, nothing to give him, just a frank and open stare as he took in the blurred non-details of the man's face.

The man leaned over.

"_John."_

This time when John awoke, still half-asleep and very close to being unconscious once more, he pulled his laptop towards him without needing the motivation of the usual 'bing' – this time he would talk first, speak the question that was flitting about at the edge of his barely-conscious mind still hazy from his dream.

He was asleep again barely seconds after hitting 'Send'.

**-X-**

_Carefully placing the tiny metal spatula down on the grooved wooden table and ensuring to move the candle away from the edge (lest it spill wax onto the rug beneath) he turned and stood in one fluid motion, quietly ghosting his way towards the brightly-lit laptop resting on the arm of the sofa. With a swift brush of a long, white finger upon the keyboard, the perpetrator of the noise which had so rudely interrupted him mid-experiment flickered up into life on the screen._

_Ice-blue eyes skated across the words, narrowing ever so slightly as his quick-fire mind ran through possible meanings and answers._

_Gently, William Sherlock Scott Holmes – Sherlock to family and very few others – rested his slender wrists on the edge of the brushed-aluminium keyboard, eyes casting themselves over the words one more time._

**Watson, J:** How many people have you said no to?

"_Regarding the tutoring," Sherlock murmured in his deep baritone, the only sound to fill the whorl of his ears. He leaned back for a moment, tilting his head until he was staring at the blank ceiling above him. "So curious, so soon."_

_He began typing before he had even brought his gaze back to the screen. _

_Standing and gently pressing 'Send' in one movement, he turned away from the laptop without looking back and returned to his candle, kneeling back on the edge of the rug and plucking the spatula back between his fingers until it felt as if it had never been removed._

**-X-**

_~Bing~_

John rolled over, groaning, barely conscious once again as he leaned towards his laptop and dragged the chair clumsily closer. His eyes squinted in the darkness as they adjusted to the light of the screen, seeing that there were words but hardly able to comprehend them.

But comprehension eventually came. Slowly he remembered. The dream. The question.

And now, the answer.

_**Holmes, W:** Everyone but you._


	5. Chapter 5

**Just a short one before bed! XD Keep reviewing, they're like gold dust to me!**

**Chapter Five**

_**Holmes, W:** Good afternoon, John._

Still bleary-eyed from his sleep, not to mention still in a state of shell-shock from the obscenely loud attack on his ears that was his alarm tone, John pulled his laptop from the chair and settled it on his lap, shaking his head violently back and forth in an attempt to wake himself from his post-nap stupor.

_**Watson, J:** Hi._

He leaned over to his bedside cabinet, pulling the half-empty bottle of water from its resting place and quickly taking a swig, watching the 'typing' icon from the corner of his eye. It felt like much later than 5:30 in the afternoon.

_**Holmes, W:** How are you finding your learning schedule so far?_

_**Watson, J:** Interesting. Difficult. Tiring._

_**Holmes, W:** Would you like to expand on that?_

_**Watson, J:** I guess I'm not supposed to say 'no', right?_

_**Holmes, W:** Correct._

_**Watson, J:** All right_

_**Watson, J:** I found it difficult to work up the motivation to download the materials you sent me today/ It took a great deal of determination just to open up the attachment, let alone read it._

_**Watson, J:** To be honest I got kind of pissed off today when your e-mail woke me up._

_**Holmes, W:** I see._

_**Watson, J:** But I'm guessing you want to know how I feel about the work, not the other stuff._

_**Holmes, W:** If you feel like 'the other stuff' is relevant to your learning I would prefer that you include this in your evaluation of your experience so far._

_**Holmes, W:** Only if you're comfortable doing so._

_**Watson, J:** Ok_

_**Watson, J:** I pretty much cursed your name up until the moment I actually started reading_

_**Watson, J:** I spent much of the time leading up to it procrastinating by blaming you for my inevitable failure_

_**Watson, J:** And at my worst moments, I hated you for being the reason I have to keep trying_

_**Watson, J: **Which I should probably feel bad about._

_**Holmes, W:** Hate is quite a strong word._

_**Watson, J:** Ok... irrepressible frustration. _

_**Holmes, W:** Which, as we discussed, is the whole reason you agreed to do this in the first place. That frustration is what allows you to momentarily escape the depression, at least in a shallow sort of way._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, but I didn't feel like that yesterday..._

_**Watson, J:** Yesterday I felt willing_

_**Watson, J:** Or as willing as I'm able to feel at the moment_

_**Holmes, W:** You can't expect your reactive emotions to change so suddenly overnight. Yesterday was a new start for you, or at least that's what your brain portrayed it to be. Yesterday essentially gave you a small rush of adrenaline at the thought that this could be the start of recovery, of renewed success._

_**Holmes, W:** Today you woke up feeling exactly as you've felt every day for the last two months._

_**Holmes, W:** To imagine that every day you'll wake up feeling ready and raring to go simply because I'm sending you course material to look over is, forgive me, foolish._

_**Watson, J:** So, I'm a fool. I suppose I must be_

_**Holmes, W:** What do you mean?_

_**Watson, J:** Trying to turn all of this around. It's utterly pointless, which makes me a fool for even attempting it_

The haze around his brain shuddered slightly in apparent agreement. John stared blankly at the screen.

_**Holmes, W:** The fact that you even took that first step in accepting me as your PAT is a great victory, John. I implore you not to forget that._

_**Watson, J:** You sound like a counsellor_

_**Watson, J:** I don't want a counsellor._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm not attempting to be._

_**Holmes, W:** I apologise. Perhaps we should limit our conversations so that they are purely academic if we're to avoid complications._

An odd pang shot through John's stomach, momentarily breaking through the cloying fog. His fingers began typing before he could even wrap his head around the idea that he should stop.

_**Watson, J:** I don't want that_

A momentary pause.

_**Watson, J:** I'm sorry, I know you'd prefer it that way. Let's do that, ok, that's fine_

John leaned away from the screen and rested his head against the wall, eyes half-closed but focused on the conversation window as he waited for William's response. He ignored the sensation of butterflies that had started tingling in his stomach, ignoring even harder the knowledge of why the sensation was even there in the first place – it was difficult, though. Especially as William wasn't typing.

_**Watson, J:** I should go._

Instantly William began typing.

_**Holmes, W:** No._

The sensation in his stomach strengthened, hands tightening their grip on his laptop slightly.

_**Holmes, W:** I'm not altogether sure what I'm supposed to say to you now._

John laughed his familiar humourless laugh, rolling his eyes to the man who could not see them.

_**Watson, J:** No change from usual, then._

_**Watson, J:** Just forget it, William. I shouldn't have said all the things I have so far anyway. It's not like you know me enough to care and it's not as if I know you... at all._

_**Watson, J:** Christ, you know more about me in less than week than I would probably learn about you in an entire lifetime_

_**Watson, J:** I'm tired._

_**Watson, J:** This tutoring thing isn't working out, clearly neither of us can deal with my stupid, fucked-up head_

_**Watson, J:** I'm going to go and sleep._

_**Watson, J:** Sorry for wasting your time._

He didn't want to see William's response; the fog was already so heavy it was suffocating, his own sense of failure and worthlessness so cloying that he barely had the vision to shove the laptop onto the mattress beside him before he slid his body down into the mass of blankets and covers, his nest, his safe-space. He lay flat, eyes open so wide they began to sting, dust particles and air settling against the shining surface without a care in the world; he ignored the discomfort, letting them water, blinking away the moisture and staring expressionless at the ceiling above his head as the familiar blanket of numbness embrace him tenderly and settle against his chest.

Back to normality.

* * *

_~RIIIIIING~_

The noise woke him up like a gunshot.

Heart thumping wildly John sat bolt upright, almost knocking the laptop from the edge of his bed; he reached out with a hand and slapped it down on the keyboard to stop it from falling, other hand grasping the material over his chest as he gulped in deep breaths to calm himself down. The room was completely dark, laptop the only source of light. His phone was dead, he knew it was, so that couldn't have been the source of the godforsaken noise.

"What the fuck...?" He pulled the laptop properly back onto the bed, manoeuvring carefully until his foot hesitantly found the floor. He pushed himself into a stiff standing position, reaching out with his hands as he began to shuffle forward towards the light switch; he cursed quietly as he whacked his thumb on the wardrobe, bringing it to his chest as he continued moving forward. Finally he made it, hand reaching out and brushing the wall. "Where's the bloody -"

"You really shouldn't swear quite so much, it makes you sound far less intelligent than you actually are."

A wave of something impossibly warm yet immobilising surged through his body, freezing him in his place by the switch.

The deep voice practically vibrated its way across the air to him.

"I'm assuming from your silence that you weren't expecting me."

John pushed his throbbing thumb harder into his chest, eyes failing to adjust to the dark. "What the _hell_?"

"I'm also assuming you're not altogether pleased, either."

"Where the hell _are_ you?" John spluttered, his body tensed so tight it was beginning to ache.

The voice's low tones sounded amused, slightly condescending. "In my living room, John. Where did you think I was? Hiding under your bed?"

John's silence spoke volumes.

"Perhaps the swearing is a sign you're not as intelligent as I thought," the voice said, still condescending, mildly teasing, the phrasing gradually making itself known as very, very familiar. "And perhaps you should consider putting a lamp beside your bed to avoid any future confusion. Tell me, do you often have men appearing without warning in your bedroom? Am I one of a number?"

"What are you talking about?" John slowly began to force his muscles to relax so that he could move, walking towards the source of the deep baritone, cautious, curious. He stopped by his bed, waiting.

"It would certainly explain why your first instinct was to assume that I had somehow snuck into your room and was hiding in wait for you, rather than reaching the more likely conclusion that I had called you through the instant messaging service and you had accidentally answered in your post-sleep stupor."

Instantly John grabbed the laptop, pulling it up to his face and staring at the screen – sure enough the conversation window was up, a microphone icon flashing in the top right-hand corner.

"How did I..." The laptop almost falling to the ground, John's hand coming down heavily on the keyboard. "Oh. I did do that."

"Yes."

Slowly he sat on the edge of his bed, resting the laptop on his knees. His eyes travelled over the conversation screen, lingering momentarily on the name.

_**Holmes, W.**_

"Have you recovered from your shock?"

God, his voice was deep. Deeper than John's own voice, anyway. It had a certain upper-class air to it, every syllable perfectly enunciated, every consonant carefully pronounced. He sounded as if he were older than he was, though in another way he seemed completely ageless. It was odd, familiar, overwhelming and calming all at once, such a wide array of feelings that John momentarily found himself unable to respond, simply staring at William's name.

"John?"

"William," he managed to push out, voice cracking awkwardly from the tightness in his throat.

"Yes, that's right. Have you only just realised?"

"I -"

"I really may have to rethink this whole tutoring business." The amusement was back, less condescension. "Your mind is far slower than I know what to do with."

John shook his head, mind suddenly reclaiming the memories of their previous conversation. It was difficult to focus, his mind so obtrusively wrapped around the velvety tones currently filling his room. "What are you... why have you called me, William?"

A brief pause. "Would you prefer to go back to sleep?"

"No -" He stopped, inwardly cursing his instinctual response. He had already made this decision earlier. "Yes. Yes. I made it... perfectly clear earlier how I felt."

A slight humming noise, the depth of sound low and derisive. "Mmm. You certainly did."

"So this call -"

"You didn't give me a chance to respond to you," the voice cut across, stern, direct, "and that was rather rude of you. When we're having a discussion I would prefer that you give me at least a minute's notice before you simply drop out of a conversation."

John's jaw tightened. "William -"

"If you'll let me speak, John." William's voice lowered slightly, the words almost menacing in the obsidian darkness of John's bedroom. "You've had your turn."


	6. Chapter 6

**THIS ONE WAS SO MUCH FUN TO WRITE, I CAN BARELY CONTROL MYSELF! Must... write... next... chapter...**

* * *

**Chapter Six**

The whole room felt as if it were breathing around John. William's voice had an almost disturbingly mellifluous quality, melodic in its depth as the man began to talk into the darkness.

"I'm not the type to go out of my way to say these sorts of things, and... it's important that you know that. It's important in the very least if, as I intend, our relationship is going to progress the way in which I think would benefit us both."

"Relationship is a bit of an odd -"

"John," the voice admonished, irate. "This is very difficult for me and you're not making it any easier by interrupting."

John blinked. "Right. Sorry."

"When I took you on as my... mentee, shall we say, I was well aware of what I was undertaking. I understood the level of your depression and your dislike for assistance in all forms; it would take an idiot not to read that in your written tone, and as we've very well established, an idiot I am not."

"Yes, covered that just a few times."

"_John_."

"Sorry."

The voice continued. "You have wondered, directly to me, why in fact I chose you rather than rejecting you as I have every other student before now. It's natural for you to wonder this, and it is no secret to myself that I have perhaps wondered the same thing for myself on more than once occasion... it is not something I am used to. I am... not well-versed in what makes one person wish to communicate frequently with another."

John opened his mouth to deliver yet another agreement but, remembering just in time, stopped himself. He slowly pushed himself back further onto the bed, crossing his legs as he leaned his back against the cold wall and rested the laptop properly in his lap.

"I won't go into detail now – it is not the time, nor the place. What I can tell you, as it appears I must offer you _something_ in order to convince you of my... dedication..." there was a small, audible intake of breath, "is that I believe we may be able to come to understand one another on some small level. Depending on the longevity of our arrangement, it could even be on a somewhat... bigger... level. Evidently I am weak in regards to social interaction and I oftentimes say the wrong thing completely, I am not totally ignorant to that and I'll confess to you now that when I often cannot find the right words to say I'll simply say nothing at all – this is a point well made by my earlier comment of 'I don't know what to say to you now', if you wish to refer back to our instant messages."

It was almost laughable, the way William struggled, yet at the same time John could not laugh at this man who was trying so hard. He understood the struggle, even if their reasons weren't the same.

"You were right in saying that I don't know you, that you don't know much - if anything - about me, but I think... you should know..." William's voice broke off. "Ugh, you should be aware..."

John could not help himself. "You're doing fine, William. Better than I would be under the same circumstances."

A moment of silence. "My circumstances _are_ your circumstances."

He wasn't quite sure what William meant, but he didn't want to make things worse by changing the subject. "What is it I should be aware of?"

"Yes, quite." The voice cleared its throat, the noise loud in the shadowed room. "It is necessary for you to be aware that... just because I... don't... know you..." He sighed, clearly close to giving up. "It doesn't mean that I... don't... it doesn't mean that you aren't..."

John's voice was gentle when it slipped from his lips, surprising himself. "It doesn't mean that you don't care."

"Y...es."

"William, you have no reason to care about me," John murmured quietly, his stomach twisting in discomfort at the intensity of the conversation, mind unable to grasp how it had come to this. "And I don't say that for you to pity me, I really don't, but you have no... _responsibility_ for me. You came into my life less than a week ago, you don't owe me _anything_."

"Yes, but it's not as simple as that, is it?" William's voice was flustered, heightened in its volume in an almost humorous way. "This is _exactly_ what Mycroft cautioned me about, I should really consider listening to him once or twice a year -"

"I'm sorry, who? Your croft?"

"Mycroft," the voice muttered, the word full of loathing. "My brother."

The revelation of a sibling was a genuinely surprising one. "You have a brother?"

"Mm. Older. Seven years, to be precise."

"Wow." John's eyebrows were raised, staring at the screen despite having nothing to look at. "Didn't peg you for a younger brother. Or a brother at all, to be honest."

"If only your imaginings were real, John, it would spare me such grief."

The tiniest of smiles twitched on his lips. "Don't get on, then?"

"He's an arrogant know-it-all with more brains than sense," William grumbled. John almost choked. "What? _What_?"

"Sorry, sorry," John coughed, shaking his head and unable this time to suppress the grin that spread across his face, "but you have to admit it's a bit like the pot calling the kettle black."

"Spare me your outdated phrases, and what exactly are you insinuating?"

"Insinuating? No, William, I'm not _insinuating_, I'm saying very obviously that you just perfectly described yourself to me. You have to know that that's _exactly_ how you come off to other people?"

William made a noise halfway between a groan and a sigh. "Only stupid people."

"Oh, _thanks_!"

"We're getting off-topic," the voice said briskly, his tone obviously irritated, "and you're forcing me to insult you when the intention of this conversation was to try and attempt the exact opposite."

John grinned again, barely even conscious of his sudden lift in mood. "Oh please, by all means compliment me."

"I would if you stopped interrupting me every five seconds!"

"I was trying to help!"

"This is getting ridiculous now," William huffed. John could almost imagine his faceless body folding his arms and looking intensely sulky. "We may as well end the conversation here for all the good it's doing."

It was then that John felt it: the grin, the slight buzz in his head, the strange and mild leaping sensation in his stomach... the _good_ it was doing. He gripped the laptop hard, ultimately determined to hold onto it as best as he could whilst it lasted. "You'd be surprised."

The voice was silent for a moment. "Why are you smiling so much?"

John's grin widened further still. "Who says I'm smiling?"

"You. Your tone. It's all... warm."

His stomach gave another twist, butterflies battling discomfort. His grin twisted into a smaller, awkward smile, feeling as if William could see through the screen and knew exactly what he was doing, how he was feeling. "Is it?"

Another brief silence. "Not anymore."

The two sat awkwardly in the quiet together for a few minutes, the only sound through the laptop speakers an occasional tapping noise as if William were drumming his fingers against the keyboard. John considered mentioning it, but after their odd little moment before it seemed inconsequential, unimportant. Then he decided that was exactly what was necessary. "Are you tapping -"

"Do you want to sleep?"

John's head jerked back slightly, bewildered. "What? Why?"

"I don't know, I thought you might be tired."

He was, despite the buzzing in his head. "I'm not."

"All right."

John let the silence linger for a few moments more before he gave up on it. "Was there anything else you needed to say? You _were_ the one that called me."

"Hm. I don't know. You distracted me with your interruptions and... smiles."

The stomach-twist, the buzzing; the dark heightened them both. "Sorry."

"There was something else."

"Mm?"

William hesitated, the pause almost audible. "You said that I would prefer our relationship to be purely academic."

John's defences rose slightly. "I did."

"Why?"

"I was..." He sighed, rubbing his hand over his face. "I assumed you would rather it was less... emotional."

"Depression is generally unemotional."

"I know," John said, stomach clenching. "I've become quite familiar with that, obviously. But I'm not always so good at controlling what emotions I _do_ experience, if only because they're so... unexpected."

When the voice spoke again, there was a hint of a smile there – John now felt a growing understanding of why William had used the word 'warm' earlier. It was strange. "Not to mention unfailingly negative, which evidently I inspire within you."

John's jaw tightened.

"John?"

"I'm still here."

Another awkward silence. "Did I say something wrong? Offensive?"

"No."

Yet more silence. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

John's sigh wrapped around him like a blanket. "I'm just as bad at this stuff as you. I can't just... come out with things. You'll have to be patient."

William remained quiet; John took this as his show of patience.

If he was going to say it, he may as well get it over with. "You do know... that... earlier. Earlier, when you... when I was smiling."

"Yes?"

John cleared this throat, deeply uncomfortable with the tension surrounding them – or perhaps just him. "You are aware that... it was _you_..."

"I wasn't smiling."

"No. No, not that." God, they were a terrible combination of awkwardness and inability to communicate. "You, William... were the _reason_ that I... was... smiling."

"Ah."

"Yeah." John cleared his throat again. "Yes, well, exactly."

William was clearly attempting to understand. "You're implying that the smile was... generated because of me."

"Generated?"

"Well, I don't know how else to put it!"

"Okay, all right," John said, gently clenching and unclenching his fists, "I understand."

"Good." More tapping came through the speakers. "So. Not just negative, then."

John's hands were beginning to shake; the vulnerability was back, revelations bringing about the same old reactions. "No."

"I'm... glad."

John frowned. "Are you? I thought..."

"You thought what?"

"I thought you'd rather skip all the emotional stuff and stick to a non-complicated, academic thing. Like you so strenuously put across in your e-mails."

"That was my initial intention, yes. But intentions aren't always... simple to follow through." William suddenly sounded exhausted, slightly confused. "I don't know, these sorts of things are usually beyond me. I understand the science behind them of course, that much is very easy to understand -"

"It's all right, William, you don't have to explain."

"Mm. Probably better if I don't try, I'll just end up confusing the both of us. But you clearly already understand the emotions behind a friendship, you mentioned earlier a best friend."

John found himself nodding slowly. "Yes, I do have social relationships. Not so much these days, but before, yes, I had them."

When William spoke, his deep voice was thoughtful. "So depression really does affect relationships quite as dramatically as they say?"

"In my experience, yes."

It was William's turn to clearly be holding something back, his silence speaking volumes; John picked up on it immediately.

"All right, your turn."

"What do you mean?"

John raised an eyebrow to the screen. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

The first laugh – a deep, low, throaty sound, brief but very real. It filled the air around John and made him feel as if he were surrounded by a nest of hot-water bottles, his entire body heated from within. It was a rare but familiar feeling, though he would be hard-pressed to find a name for it when so distracted by the sound as he was.

"So you _are_ observant."

John smiled slightly. "Not like you."

"Still. It shows promise."

"Thank you...?"

"Mm."

John shuffled against the now warm spot on the wall, waiting. "So? What aren't you saying?"

He waited, slightly impatient, as William worked silently to find the right words; when they came, however, it was not what he had expected:

"Considering the... breakdown of your relationships. If you were to allow yourself to play upon the idea of... of _our_ relationship... friendship... situation..." A tiny sigh. "I find it odd that you are somehow able to maintain a level of communication with... me, especially when people you've known for longer are not... involved... in this stage of your life."

John stayed quiet, if only because he had no idea what to say in response.

"And I wonder if it is at all possible that your depression is, perhaps, the _only_ reason you are... communicating. With me."

John's teeth began worrying away at his lower lip. "Mm."

"You understand?"

"Yes, yes," he quickly said, not wanting his 'mm' to seem like an agreement of what William was suggesting. "I completely understand, and it's not... like that. I don't think." He forced himself to stop chewing at his lip, knowing from experience that he would subconsciously do it for so long that it would end up splitting and bleeding. "Although, of course, if I hadn't been depressed we probably wouldn't have spoken in the first place."

William allowed a moment to consider this. "Would you go as far as to consider it... a silver lining?"

John's entire body felt as if it were falling, his stomach knotting and jumping terribly. "Excuse me?"

"The phrase, 'to every cloud there is a silver lining' – I believe that's right?"

"Yes, but... I just... I wouldn't have ever considered there to _be_ a silver lining to... my cloud."

William's response was quick, a little too quick. "Of course not. How ridiculous of me."

"No, I didn't mean -"

The voice that interrupted sounded horribly polite. "Please forgive me for being so thoughtless. Of course I understand that your depression is not something on which silver linings can be considered. Please accept my apologies, John."

He had to say _something_. "You're the only thing to have made me smile since I started feeling this way."

Quiet.

"I mean, I've smiled, but it's never been _real_, there haven't been moments where I feel happy or content or amused enough to smile since this whole thing started to take over my life. You are... the only one to have done that."

If the tension had been too much for John before, it was nothing compared to waiting for William to respond. The silence dragged on.

"...William?"

"Thank you."

John sighed. "It's _me_ who should be thanking _you_."

"No one's ever said anything like that to me before."

Swallowing hard, John pushed his trembling hands between his legs to stop their movement. "Oh."

"It's very unfamiliar."

He did not know how to respond. "Oh. Well. Okay then."

"I..." The voice stopped, indecisive. "Would you call me your friend now? Is this what friendship is?"

John barked out a quiet laugh, still distinctly uncomfortable. "Nothing like I've had before, but... yes, I'm pretty sure we could call ourselves friends now."

"I don't really know how to do it."

"...do what?"

"Be someone's friend."

God, it was like talking to a child. John almost pitied him. "You're doing fine so far. I mean, you're irritating beyond belief sometimes, but everyone has flaws. Just... be... _you_, I suppose. Don't try too hard and you'll probably be fine."

"Right. Be me."

"Yes."

"John, this may mean... sometimes I may not talk to you. Sometimes I may not talk to you for days."

This was unsurprising to the aspiring doctor. "That's fine. I'm not always talkative either."

"I have... bad moods."

"So does everybody."

William paused. "I don't like talking to people face-to-face."

"Y'know it sounds to me like you don't want to really be friends at all, William, are you sure you want to go down this road?"

The voice was quiet, contemplative. "I have a suspicion I am not an easy man to be friends with."

"I have no doubt, but then I don't like you because you're easy to get on with."

William's condescending tone was back. "Huh, 'like'. You make it sound like we're children. I didn't think you liked me anyway, or that's what you said before."

John sighed; god, this was a lot of effort. "Well I'm not exactly in charge of how I feel day by day right now, am I? You'll have to just... be patient with me, as I'm going to have to be with you."

"Mm. Probably."

He let the silence go on for a bit, letting William get this thoughts in order. "So. Are you okay with all this?"

"What? Oh, with the friendship thing. Yes, yes, it's fine."

"All right. And are we still going to do the PAT business?"

William sounded sure of himself for the first time in a few minutes. "Oh, certainly. You need me."

"Not sure about _need -_"

"You do."

"Fine," John agreed, if only to stop an argument from brewing. It was far too late and he was far too tired for that. Speaking of which... "Listen, I should probably try and sleep for a bit."

"Yes, almost definitely. You've made quite enough progress for one evening."

John frowned, staring at the screen as he began to shake his head. "No, look... you're not my counsellor, all right? Friend is fine, therapist is not."

"...is there much of a difference?"

"Oh, god," he groaned, dragging his palm down his face in exasperation. "Yes, William, there's a difference. Look it up on Google."

"Ugh, Google. I should've known you'd be a fan."

"William."

The voice was slightly chastised. "Sorry. Can't help it sometimes."

"Try."

"Fine," the voice grumbled. "I'll let you sleep, then."

"Thank you. And look, I'm sorry about earlier, I've just had a really bad day of it today. Wasn't the easiest one in the world."

John felt that odd warmth around him again as William's voice came through the speakers in such gentle tones he could barely recognise it was the same person. "I know, John. It's all right."

"Okay. Well. Goodnight then, William. Thanks for... y'know. Calling."

William's voice was quieter than ever. "Goodnight, John."

John waited for a moment to see if there was anything more to come but, after a few seconds of quiet and tapping, he moved the cursor over the little flashing microphone icon and clicked it, ending the voice call. Slowly and carefully he moved his now rather warm laptop onto the desk chair, standing and walking lightly over to the sink and mirror, plucking his toothbrush from beside his flannel and glancing up to meet his own gaze in the mirror.

It took a little longer for the dullness to come back this time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Another little one to tide you over whilst I write the next chapter! :D **

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**To:** _**Watson, J**_

**From: _Harvey, J_**

**Date: **_April 24__th__ 2013 – 5:20pm_

**Subject: **_Attendance_

_Hi John,_

_Just a little note to say it was nice to see you in my lecture and seminar today – how are you doing? Are you getting on all right with William?_

_Jo_

* * *

Straightening his back slightly to work the ache he'd been fighting for the last two hours (the workload from his seminar on top of William's daily materials were doing nothing good for his posture), John quickly began to hammer out a reply.

* * *

_Hi Joanne,_

_It was an interesting one today, and luckily because of William I'd already covered much of what you set out for us. We're getting on all right, he's a little intense with the workload but in general it seems to be going fine, thanks._

_Hope you're well._

_John_

* * *

Glancing at his watch and squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he wondered to himself how much longer he could put off talking to Mike about the party that evening; he couldn't avoid it forever, especially as Mike had been so enthusiastic in his texts about him going. Though he'd managed his first set of classes for the first time in a while that very day, he was so exhausted from the sheer effort of leaving his room that he had a sneaking suspicion that even if he were to attend he would manage to stay for a maximum of ten minutes before begging off and leaving early.

Literally as this thought went through his mind his phone began to buzz. Knowing instantly that it was now or never, he picked it up and opened the call.

"Mike. Hi."

"Hey, John! Was calling to see what time to expect you at Greg's tonight!"

God, he sounded so eager. John leaned his forehead against the heel of his hand, dreading what was to come next. "Yeah, about that... I've got such a lot on at the moment, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to make it."

Mike's silence was all to easy to read. "Oh. Well..."

"I'm sorry."

"What if you just showed up for an hour?" The man was clearly begging. "Come on, John, it's been fucking _ages_ since you socialised with everyone – with me." Oh, the hurt in his voice would have been painful to listen to if John wasn't so tired. "Please, mate. One hour. That's all I'm asking for."

Sighing inwardly, John felt his fingers shift to rake his hair, hating every second of this conversation with a dull passion. "Mike... I'm just so _tired..._"

"We're all tired," his friend said, suddenly sounding a little less desperate and a little more impatient, "but we all have to make the effort for our friends, especially after such a bloody long time. It wouldn't kill you to spend an hour out of your room -"

"I get out of my room," John protested defensively, head rising from his hand. "I had classes today, do you think I stayed in my room for those?"

"Social occasions don't include mandatory seminars, John," Mike sighed. "I can't believe you can't squeeze in one hour to see your friends. To see _me_ for crying out loud, I'm supposed to be your best friend."

John gritted his teeth, too tired to be irritated but knowing he would probably find the energy to snap at his friend should he keep pushing. "You are my best friend, Mike, it's just been a difficult couple of months. It's not like I've been enjoying not being able to see you -"

"So see me. Come tonight."

"No," he said bluntly. "I'm sorry, but I can't come. I'll come next time or something, all right?"

Silence, before: "Fine. See you some other time, when you can be bothered." And further silence as Mike hung up the phone.

John threw the phone onto his bed, letting out a groan that was closer to a yell, the little effort it took to increase his volume sapping his energy even further. Now instead of simply being exhausted he was in a bad mood, and a bad mood led to an evening of utter nothing. The frustration at his friend wouldn't last long, and soon he'd be flat on his bed, falling into a very deep, very dreamless sleep -

_~Bing~_

"Oh, fuck it," he moaned, forgetting that it was Friday, forgetting his bloody appointment with William (whom he hadn't spoken to in a few days other than receiving course materials and emails with John's edited notes, illustrating the genius's previous comment of his disappearances for days at a time) – he opened the conversation window and raked his eyes over the words with building irritation.

_**Holmes, W:** Good afternoon, John._

_**Watson, J:** Is it?_

_**Holmes, W:** Perhaps not. Bad day?_

_**Watson, J:** Not until two minutes ago, but hey, at the moment I'm lucky to have any days that aren't total and utter crap. Can't complain._

_**Holmes, W:** I have evidence on my computer that you do. Conversation history, you know._

_**Watson, J:** Ha bloody ha._

_**Holmes, W:** Dare I ask what set off this rather delightful mood of yours?_

_**Watson, J:** Friends._

_**Holmes, W:** Ah. Does this include me?_

_**Watson, J:** I'm actually shocked to say that no, it doesn't. Though you might want to take care with how snarky you are today, because I just might go off the deep end with you._

_**Holmes, W:** Hmm. Perhaps you'd like to rearrange our appointment._

_**Watson, J:** To be honest, William, I'm not really sure what I have to say. I did the work, you sent it back to me, it was all a learning experience, as ever._

_**Watson, J:** Sorry, I know I'm being a cock_

_**Watson, J:** I'm just not in the right place to be enthusiastic._

_**Holmes, W:** All right._

_**Holmes, W:** May I ask what, in relation to friends, put you in this mood?_

_**Holmes, W:** You don't have to, of course, if you'd rather keep it to yourself._

_**Watson, J:** No, it's all right. I was invited to a party tonight and I essentially just ruined one of my remaining friendships by saying that I can't go._

_**Watson, J:** Usually I'd feel bad, but I have enough guilt to be getting on with from a purely self-involved perspective_

_**Holmes, W:** A party? That could be good for you, John._

_**Watson, J:** You do know what parties are, right? Big groups of people in an over-crowded student pit of a house, a general overflow of alcohol and loud music that makes socialising far more difficult than it already is? Virtual hell?_

_**Holmes, W:** I'm familiar with the concept, yes. Who's throwing this satanic pit of flames, then?_

_**Watson, J:** You won't know him, Greg Lestrade. Mike knows him from hockey, we've met a few times. Nice enough bloke, though I've never been to one of his house parties, or his house come to think of it._

_**Holmes, W:** Men who hit a hard object with sticks, just my sort of crowd... or perhaps not._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, well. I'm not going._

_**Holmes, W:** Hmm._

_**Holmes, W:** That's a pity._

_**Watson, J:** Eh? Why?_

_**Holmes, W:** You might get something out of it if you go. You could do with going out, seeing some new faces, painting the town a dull sort of grey._

A tiny grin turned up the corners of John's mouth.

_**Watson, J:** I think it's more a sort of magnolia these days. Like the paint on my walls._

_**Holmes, W:** Ah yes, university campus accommodation – because our souls aren't damaged enough already._

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, exactly. _

_**Watson, J:** But you don't live on campus, do you?_

_**Holmes, W:** No, I rent a small house in town with an acquaintance._

_**Watson, J:** You live with someone? How does THAT work?_

_**Holmes, W:** We get on well enough. He keeps out of my way, I keep out of his; generally we get on all right when he is around, though, even if he's not the brightest spark._

_**Watson, J:** Of course he isn't, not compared to you, oh mighty pylon!_

_**Holmes, W:** Flatterer._

John's grin widened slightly, feeling the stress ebb somewhat; he had no idea how William did it, it was... odd.

_**Holmes, W:** You really should consider the party, though._

_**Watson, J:** You are kidding me._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm being completely genuine, John. You need to try and keep your bridges intact, no matter how difficult it is. Depression can truly destroy your friendships; though your friends may seem to be more irritating than interesting at this point in your life one day you're going to feel better, and who will you have then, once you've burned your bridges?_

_**Watson, J:** How do you know so much about depression? You're always spouting things about it._

_**Holmes, W:** Please John, I'm a certified genius. I know about all sorts of things that your head couldn't even contemplate._

_**Watson, J:** Ah, I missed you._

_**Holmes, W:** Pardon?_

_**Watson, J:** The smug, arrogant arsehole. I missed him._

_**Holmes, W:** Insult me all you like, it's the truth._

_**Watson, J:** Ah yes, and you always tell the truth._

_**Holmes, W:** Precisely._

_**Watson, J:** ...do you really think I should go to this party, then?_

_**Holmes, W:** Oh, absolutely._

_**Holmes, W:** If only to satisfy all of your friends._

_**Watson, J:** Hmm. I don't like the fact that I'm considering actually taking your advice. It's disturbing._

_**Holmes, W:** I already dictate your academic life, you may as well give in and let me dictate your personal life too._

_**Holmes, W:** :P_

_**Watson, J:** Um, William? What the hell are you doing?_

_**Holmes, W:** I don't know, I thought people did that._

_**Holmes, W:** I assume it's supposed to be a tongue poking out, I'm not altogether sure._

_**Watson, J:** Please don't do it again, it makes you seem frighteningly normal._

_**Holmes, W:** Noted._

_**Holmes, W:** So. Are you going to the party?_

_**Watson, J:** I really don't know. What are you going to do all evening if I'm not here to entertain you?_

_**Holmes, W:** For your information, I already have a social engagement planned. Utterly ridiculous and I have no interest in going whatsoever, but apparently it's necessary._

John frowned. William had a social life? Since when?

_**Watson, J:** What is it, a date?!_

_**Holmes, W:** Oh, do grow up._

_**Watson, J:** So what is it, you have to suffer so you're forcing me to suffer too?_

_**Holmes, W:** Isn't that the basis of friendship?_

_**Watson, J:** If you'd played Ring of Fire with Mike before, you'd know yourself to be completely right._

_**Holmes, W:** What on earth is Ring of Fire?_

_**Watson, J:** A drinking game. Deck of cards around a pint glass, everyone takes one card at a time and each card means something._

_**Holmes, W:** A consequence-based drinking game, essentially?_

_**Watson, J:** Yeah, exactly. Like, one card means all the men have to drink; another might mean you have to add some of your drink to the pint glass. At the end, whoever draws the last Ace has to drink the pint in the middle._

_**Holmes, W:** That sounds positively vulgar._

_**Watson, J:** It is. Mike's favourite is the 'link' card, where you can link two friends together so that whenever one of them has to drink, the other does too. He always links himself with me so that I have to suffer alongside him, it ends up veeeery messy._

_**Holmes, W:** Remind me never to play that game with you._

_**Watson, J:** William, I can't even imagine you drinking, let alone playing drinking games._

_**Holmes, W:** I drink. Wine. Maybe the occasional glass of brandy._

_**Watson, J:** Wow. Remind me never to play drinking games with YOU. I'd hate to see how you'd end up trying to play Ring of Fire with brandy!_

_**Holmes, W:** So we're agreed in this – no drinking games within the company of the other._

_**Watson, J:** Deal._

_**Watson, J:** Oh god, I'm going to the party, aren't I?_

_**Holmes, W:** I dictate it, therefore it shall be._

_**Watson, J:** I'm not your bitch, Will._

_**Holmes, W:** Ugh, please don't call me that. Nobody calls me that. So common._

_**Watson, J:** Bill?_

_**Holmes, W:** Why would you make it worse?_

_**Watson, J:** Well, one of these days I might want to call you a nickname, and what does that leave me with?_

_**Holmes, W:** Oh, I don't know... I'll come up with something._

_**Watson, J:** I really don't want to go to this party. Can't I just stay in my room and complain about how I'm feeling to you all night instead?_

_**Holmes, W:** I'm flattered you want to spend that much time with me, John._

_**Holmes, W:** And as exciting as that really and truly sounds, I do have plans which I genuinely cannot avoid._

_**Watson, J:** First of all, shut it...!_

_**Watson, J:** Second of all, well, if I have to suffer I'm going to make you listen to me anyway._

_**Watson, J:** Do you have a mobile?_

_**Holmes, W:** Not since I was a child._

_**Holmes, W:** :P_

_**Watson, J:** Oh god, please stop that..._

_**Holmes, W:** Sorry, wanted to try it one more time._

_**Holmes, W:** Yes, I have a mobile phone. Is that your way of asking for my phone number?_

_**Watson, J:** In a completely unweird way, yes it is._

_**Holmes, W:** Interesting. If I give it to you, do you promise not to send me any chain texts or ridiculous pictures of cats wearing hats?_

_**Watson, J:** Christ, yes. You have my solemn word._

_**Holmes, W:** All right. It's 07756982598._

_**Watson, J:** Hang on_

_**Watson, J: **Did you get that?_

_**Holmes, W:** Why did you call me and just hang up?_

_**Watson, J:** It was the easiest way to give you my number, calm down!_

_**Holmes, W:** Ah._

_**Watson, J:** Ok, well I'm going to bugger off and start attempting to hide the fact that I've lost two stone and make myself look relatively human._

_**Holmes, W:** That's the spirit._

_**Watson, J:** Don't get too cocky. I meant it about texting you, I'm not going to let you enjoy a single moment of your night!_

_**Holmes, W:** We'll see._

_**Holmes, W:** Speak to you later then, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._


	8. Chapter 8

**Another tiny chapter, but I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeally hope you like it! -massive grin- Bet some of you guessed what was coming... MORE TOMORROW!**

**Chapter Eight**

Standing outside in the chilly night air and staring up at Greg's house, John wished he'd brought a coat.

The house had surprised him. Meeting Greg Lestrade you certainly wouldn't imagine he'd live a stones throw away from Greenwich Park in a pretty little neighbourhood and a pretty little house; it was an end-of-terrace house, old red brick, a bay window to the front. Where most of the houses along the street had turned their little front gardens into a driveway, 221 Well Place had a little lawn and flower bed, beautifully tended and clearly not the work of an amateur. John stared at the flowers, their colour bright even in the darkness, beginning to wonder if Greg was, in fact, a raging homosexual.

He took two steps towards the door before it was flung open. Standing there, drink in hand, flushed in the face and grinning like she'd never experienced alcohol before was Molly, a girl from his course and another person he had once considered a friend... and jesus, did she looked absolutely _hammered._

"John! Oh my god, you actually _came_!" She shot towards him, holding her drink out to her side as she flung a slender arm around his neck and pulled him forward to kiss him right on the cheek; instantly he felt himself tense, defences up from her rapid descent into his personal space and fighting hard not to throw her off. "I can't believe you _came_, Mike will be so _excited_!"

"Yeah, well I think you're probably excited enough for at least half of the party, Molly," he said with a small smile, reaching up and untangling her arm from around him and patting it lightly with his other hand before letting it go. "Had a few drinks, have we?"

"Ohhh, one or two," she giggled, bringing the plastic cup to her lips and taking a swig of whatever the red liquid inside was. "Greg made punch and it tastes like pick and mix, seriously -"

"I'll try some when I get in there," he said pointedly, gesturing towards the house, "unless you want to spend the whole night out here catching pneumonia?"

Laughing more still, Molly turned and headed back into the house, her slightly shrill voice floating back out of the door as he walked towards it - "MIKE! It's JOHN!" - and giving him every reason to want to turn around and call a cab to take him home... but no, he was in the door now and had closed it behind him, he might as well give it a few more minutes before he gave up entirely.

The hallway of the house was decorated with fairy lights – again John considered the idea of Greg's raging homosexuality – and was warm and welcoming, wooden floor instead of the carpet he was expecting and warm yellow walls offsetting the generally cosy feel. There were a few people sitting on the – carpeted – stairs, talking in hushed tones and grinning over more cups of the red stuff (presumably Greg's punch), all of whom looked up as he entered and nodded their welcome, two of them even raising a hand. He nodded back, not recognising any one of them but assuming (correctly) that they were already under the influential effects of the pick and mix punch so naturally were willing to be friendly to a complete stranger in their midst. He continued to walk slow steps, glancing to his right-hand side and jerking in surprise at the huge mirror hanging over a radiator, his reflection crisp in the lighting; he found himself looking over his clothes with a critical eye, the crinkles at the front of his dark blue plaid shirt, how the black t-shirt underneath it made him look pale, washed out. Thank god he couldn't see his lower half to judge that, because no doubt even his favourite jeans wouldn't be able to save his self-esteem now. Add to it the mess of his hair and the circles underneath his eyes and he looked like absolute shite.

Taking a few steadying breaths (and feeling all too aware of the people on the stairs watching him), he started to make his way towards a room that looked very much like the kitchen, already feeling the heat of all the bodies in other rooms getting to him; at least in the kitchen there would be doors to stand by, outside space to linger near in case it all got too much. Before he had a chance to reach the room, however, someone came out of the first door on the right (just past the mirror) and grabbed his arm.

He'd never seen Mike smile so widely before.

"JOHN!" the man yelled, throwing his arm around John's shoulder – my, everyone was touchy-feely today – and squeezing him, shaking him, almost bouncing up and down in his evident (somewhat drunken) joy at seeing his best friend. "John, you jammy fucker, you made it! I never thought I'd see you tonight but you _made it_!"

"Yes, I'm... I'm here," John said with a slightly bigger smile than the one he'd offered Molly, trying as subtly as he could to slide out from underneath Mike's arm, "and it looks as if everyone is pretty much already sloshed. Did you save anything for me?"

"HE'S BACK! HEEEE'S BAAAACK!" Mike roared, slapping him heartily on the back and leaning back so that everyone near the doorway in the next room – a nice living room, though it was hard to tell in the dark – could see him; though John was fairly certain that nobody in the room actually had any idea who he was they all cheered, raising their drinks in drunken good-humour and grinning at him like their lives depended on it. He raised a hand in a half-hearted wave, trying to remember how he used to act in large social gatherings, taking Mike's lead as the man started to guide him towards the kitchen. "Got some drinks in here, a hell of a wicked punch that Greg made -"

"We ran out of cherry vodka, Mikey!" a voice yelled from the kitchen as a man not much younger than John barrelled around the edge of the doorway and stood there, glaring at the two of them as they made their way towards him. "But I've sent out a capable team to get reinforcements, don't you panic! JOHN!" He reached out and clapped John on the shoulder, eyes sparkling as he grinned a genuinely warm smile in his direction. "So good to see you mate, and welcome to mi casa! Don't spill anything, my housemate'll go spare..."

"I'll be careful," John promised, stepping around a cup that seemed to be sitting in the middle of the floor for absolutely no reason whatsoever and casting his gaze quickly over the kitchen; it was small but airy, the same warm yellow as the hallway. A glass door led out to what looked to be a well-tended rear garden already full of about twelve people smoking in little groups, a pathway leading up to a small decking with what looked like a little water-feature poking out of some reeds at the end. It was such a nice house. What the hell was Greg doing living there? "Nice little place you -"

"GOTTA TAKE A PISS!" Mike interrupted with a yell, perhaps over-exaggerating the need to do so when the music was only really deafening in the living room and only somewhat audible in the kitchen, but then he couldn't really judge his friend. He could tell exactly the effect his mere presence at the party was having on Mike and he would put up with all the yelling, touching and drinking as best as he could for as long as he could. The fact that Mike had welcomed him with open arms and not mentioned at all the fact that John was a total arsehole of late meant that he was owed John's presence and patience, for as long as the twenty-three year old could possibly manage.

Greg motioned for John to join him at what was evidently the drinks station, bottles of rum and vodka and god knows what else sitting in a frighteningly large group amidst piles and piles of plastic cups; John wandered over and took an empty cup offered to him, looking at the offerings and biting his lower lip.

"What would you suggest, Greg? You're the host, you can tell me what to drink first."

"Might regret that," the man said with a grin, instantly reaching out and grabbing a bottle of something green and inexplicably bright. "Have some of this with lemonade – it'll knock your _socks_ off."

"I'd rather keep my socks on if that's all right, but I'll give it a go anyway," John agreed, taking the bottle off of Greg and twisting the cap off, tipping until a quarter of the cup was full of the green stuff. "Will it make me ill?"

Greg pursed his lips. "Can't make you any promises."

"Fuck it," he said with a little grin, grabbing the lemonade and filling it up to the brim, "it's Saturday tomorrow, right?"

"Yeah it is!" Greg said with a laugh, knocking back a shot of something blue. "LET'S GET THIS PARTY STARTEEED!"

As the crowd cheered and a group of people descended upon Greg and John – John still trying to screw the lid for the lemonade back on the bottle – a cold air drifted in, someone entering the kitchen behind where they stood and the rustle of bags and clinking of bottles revealing the appearance of what Greg had called his 'reinforcements'.

"They didn't have the store-brand cherry vodka, Greg, so I got the name-brand bottle instead. It was eight pounds dearer but I assume that won't bother you in your current state of inebriation -"

John's entire body froze like a deer in headlights, his head spinning before he'd even taken a sip of the now pale-green concoction in his cup, hand still grasping tight onto the lemonade bottle; that voice, that _voice..._ deep, melodic, perfectly enunciated syllables and oh god, oh god, if he turned around now -

"Fuck sake, Sherlock, you think I can afford name-brand cherry vodka?!"

The voice became slightly bored, a butterflies-in-the-stomach condescending familiarity so shocking to John's already frozen form that he couldn't even bring himself to turn and face the newest addition to the room: "Considering I pay the entirety of the rent and you invited all of your friends into our house for a party I most definitely didn't agree to, yes, I think that you can afford to pay me back every penny."

John's hand slid down the lemonade bottle, desperately searching for something to hold onto – the edge of the work-surface was good enough, giving him something to lean on...

"Fucking hell," Greg muttered, walking out of sight. "You got the JD though, right? And the sambuca?"

"Yes, Greg, I followed your predictable list of refreshments to a fine point."

"Great, thanks Sherlock. Oh, right -" John could feel Greg's eyes move to his back, knew exactly what was now coming, " - Sherlock, this is my mate John from uni, one of Mike's friends -"

_Why are you calling him that when his name's William?_

There was a pause, palpable in the metres of space between them, so solid it was almost tangible. John found himself turning slowly on the spot, hands grasping tight to both the clear cup of alcohol and the black work-surface of the kitchen cabinet as he forced himself to _grow the fuck up _and face what he should have predicted would be here all along, what he should have realised from their earlier conversation... eventually he was facing the right direction, eyes dragging themselves from their spot on the floor until he finally, painstakingly pulled his gaze up to the face of William Holmes.

Ice-blue eyes met his.

"Hello, John," the voice – William – said calmly, gaze piercing, unwavering.

Greg was completely ignorant, grinning at John. "John, this is my housemate, Sherlock Holmes. Bit of a bastard but at least he went out and got us alcohol."

William... _Sherlock?_...let his gaze flicker briefly to Greg, lids shifting down to narrow slightly as he acknowledged Greg's analysis. "If you really object to living here so stridently you are more than welcome to find your own place to live."

"And pay rent?" Greg waved the idea away with a bark of laughter, reaching out and grabbing the cherry vodka and moving back towards a still-frozen John. "Bugger that. You're a _great _housemate." He looked up at John, nodding enthusiastically. "He's a _great_ housemate."

"That's what I thought," William murmured, turning his intense eyes back to John. "You have to give your friend a good first impression of me, Greg. First impressions are _so_ important."

He winked.


	9. Chapter 9

**Forgot to send the original draft of this chapter home from work, so had to rewrite this evening - went in a totally different direction to what I was planning! ANYHOO, hope you enjoy it! :D R&R, my lovelies!**

**Chapter Nine**

Mike staggered back into the room and threw his arm around John. "All right mate, let's get fucking _wasted_!"

John's mouth was slightly open, torn between staring at the man who was apparently not only William but Sherlock too, someone who lived with an acquaintance but also lived with one of John's casual friends and giving Mike enough enthusiasm that he would have no idea that something that shouldn't have been a big deal but _was absolutely a big deal_ had taken place. He managed a small "err..." before he remembered his responsibility to Mike, tearing his eyes away from the periwinkle stare and razor-sharp cheekbones of the genius standing mere metres away from him and shoving a smile on his face big enough to fool anyone as drunk as Mike clearly was.

"Let's do this!" he agreed as enthusiastically as possible, raising the cup of now pale-green liquid in honour of his apparent 'getting wasted' mission and throwing the cup back against his lips and letting the citrus explosion burn its way down his throat. "I'm ready when you are."

Mike's glazed-over eyes shifted from John to William (Sherlock?), squinting. "Didn't interrupt anything, did I?"

John opened his mouth to speak, but William got there first. "No," he said, baritone voice offhanded as he turned away from them both and picked up a single bottle of red wine from the table. "He's all yours."

The way he said it didn't sit well with John, though why he wasn't sure. "Well, I can -"

Without warning Mike began to drag him back towards the copious amounts of alcohol. "Shots, John. It is _time... for... SHOTS._"

Part of John felt a fierce desire to dig his heels in, to stop Mike from pulling him away and engage William in a conversation about who the hell he was and what was going on with the double-identity, but deep within him he knew that the tall (taller than John, anyway) man had already dismissed him and would not be easy to call back to attention. He watched out of the corner of his eye as William began to leave the room, face unsmiling and completely avoiding John's area of the room completely.

He called out before he could stop himself. "Want to do some shots, Wi...Sherlock?"

William slowed, but did not stop. "No thanks." With that, he unceremoniously left the room and left John's sight, heading off to god knows where; in the pit of John's stomach he felt an odd twist, head reminding him that he was probably one of William's only friends. The guy had said himself that he had no idea how friendships truly worked, and Mike commandeering John and John _letting_ him do so had probably not set the best first impressions of friendship. He couldn't help it; he felt bad.

"Did I hear you say Sambuca, Greg?" Mike asked loudly from beside him, grabbing a couple of plastic shot glasses.

"Yeah mate, right here!" Greg grabbed the bottle from the table and grinned widely, darting around a chair and joining them. "Wanna do the Deadly Three?"

"Oh god," John muttered, shaking his head. "You both know that only ends in... well, vomit."

Greg nodded, eyes shining as he pulled two more bottles forward on the sideboard. "Sambuca. Tequila. Jagermeister. _This. Is. Happening._"

"I don't want to get too – oh, right, there we are." Mike had already poured three shots of Jagermeister and was now pushing it into John's hand. "Guess there's no point in making any plans for tomorrow morning..."

"Too fucking right," Greg crowed, quickly (and with no precision whatsoever) pouring out a shot each of Tequila and Sambuca for the three of them, taking the shot of Jager from Mike with the tip of his fingers and looking at both of them in turn. "Ready for this, fella's?"

"Never," John said, raising his eyes to the heavens in prayer, "but I don't think I have much of a choice. Cheers, guys," he added, raising his shot glass before throwing the burning, disgusting alcohol down his throat and shuddering. "Oh god, I hate this stuff -"

"MAN UP, JOHN!" Greg yelled, grabbing the Tequila and motioning quickly for the others to do the same. "TIME FOR TEQUILA!"

They didn't bother with the the salt or lime; they never did. They necked the Tequila, slamming the shot glasses down and bringing the last shot up to their lips, Sambuca – the only one that John could personally stomach without wanting to throw up – and throwing it down after the others. The three of them stood in a row, shuddering, grinning, the burning sensation leading a streak of heat down John's chest and making him feel a little better, a little more confident. When was the last time he'd had a drink? And why oh why hadn't he eaten anything of substance today?!

He was going to regret the Deadly Three.

It turned out that he would do it not once more, but twice – a group of girls came in (a totally wrecked, overly-affectionate Molly included), screaming for a challenge; Greg masterfully took over, pouring shots out for everyone in the vicinity (and apparently for the fridge and the sideboard too judging by the sticky mess slowly spreading out across the surface) and demanding that they do it in record time. By this point (other drinks having been consumed in the form of a crowded game of Ring of Fire and another of simply 'whoever claps last has to drink') John was feeling the affects of the alcohol big time, heat and confidence spreading through his body like flames until he no longer remembered what it was like to want to hide away. Why hadn't he realised this before? Alcohol was _clearly_ the answer to awkward social situations! He ignored the warning in the back of his mind that sounded awfully like his definitely alcoholic sister, Harriet, sipping contentedly on the pick and mix punch and laughing as Greg regaled them with tales of his misspent first year at university.

Just as he realised he needed a refill, he felt a vibration in his pocket that was both pleasant and surprising in equal measures; he struggled to get it out, eventually managing to fumble enough that he could see he had received a text:

_**William: **You look like you're having a lot of fun._

Instantly his head shot up, bypassing the heads in the room and instinctively swivelling to look out of the window and into the garden – sure enough there was a tall, slender figure leaning against the fence, face turned towards him; their eyes met.

He couldn't control himself, the alcohol had too much power over him; two hours beforehand he would have simply offered a small smile, maybe even a wave, but new and more-than-tipsy John had other ideas. He walked in almost a straight line to the garden door, waving away protests at his departure from his apparently new, sloshed friends - "Air, I need air!" - and pulled it open, a welcome burst of cold air rushing in and hitting his flushed face with a freshness that felt almost bitter. He savoured it for a few moments before remembering why he had opened the door in the first place.

He stepped out, pulling the door closed behind him. "William!"

William's eyes fixed on his, expressionless; slowly the man lifted his arm, the burning end of a cigarette glowing in the darkness as he took in a deep pull, holding it in his lungs for a few moments before exhaling and replacing the cigarette with a glass of wine instead. He took a sip, not looking away for a single second as he did all of this. He did not speak.

John shuffled awkwardly on the spot. "Having... fun?"

"Oh, tons," William said in low, sarcastic tones. "I've already been propositioned three times and it's not even midnight."

John laughed, the sound loud in the empty night air. "Sounds like a brilliant night to me, I wouldn't mind being propositioned!"

William's eyes narrowed, uncomfortably judgemental. "Yes, I'd imagine you wouldn't. Amazing what a few drinks can do for depression."

The warmth in John's cheeks was suddenly no longer pleasant; a mixture of shame and irritation flooded through him. "Someone's in a bad mood. What, everyone too happy for you?"

"Not everyone," William said disparagingly, "just you."

John's mouth dropped open, eyes widening as he absorbed William's words. Wasn't this the man who had encouraged him to come, to relax and have a good time with his friends? "I'm sorry, have I done something to offend you or angered you in some way? Because four hours ago you were telling me to come and have fun and now you're berating me for doing just that."

William dropped his half-smoked cigarette to the ground and crushed it with his heel, bringing the glass of wine up to his lips and taking a long sip. "Not at all. I'm glad you've found something to substitute for happiness, and alcohol probably _is_ the best choice for you. Easy to get hold of."

John's muscles coiled, irritation tripping into anger. "So... you're pissed off at me for drinking? Is that what this is about?"

Without warning William had pushed himself off of the fence and had taken two, long steps towards John, stopping mere inches from him; John forced himself to stay where he was, ignoring his desire to move away as William's eyes bore into his – he had to tilt his chin up to meet the gaze, something that made his anger feel twice as powerful as it mixed with embarrassment.

When William spoke it was in low tones, quiet, dangerously so. "It's an easy slide into substance abuse when you have depression, John. One night of drinking could all too easily turn into another, then another, another until finally you're drinking first thing in the morning and last thing at night. You've seen the statistics in class, you're not an idiot."

"No, I'm not," John argued back in a heated whisper, matching William's volume. "But I'm not someone with a history of substance abuse, William, I'm not someone who's prone to becoming reliant on addictions. It's one night of fun," he insisted, jabbing his finger downwards in the air to accentuate his point, "and you have no right to tell me what's right for me. No right at all."

"Sherlock," William hissed. "It's _Sherlock_, not William anymore."

John threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, well if we're doing this now – why the hell would you tell me your name's William if your name is Sherlock?! What, you were playing with me? What else don't I know, are you married? Have three illegitimate children? A time-share in Dubai?"

Amusement flitted across Wi...Sherlock's features. "A time-share in Dubai?"

John didn't want to smile. He didn't. "Well, I... I don't know, do I?" He tried to ignore the tiny smile edging onto Wil...goddamn it, _Sherlock's_ face. "Don't laugh, I'm pissed off at you. I need to be pissed off at you right now."

Sherlock frowned, bewildered. "Why do you _need_ to be pissed off at me?"

An exasperated sigh drew itself from John's throat as he shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. "Because apparently I need to get pissed off with you at least once a day or the world will implode, I don't know." He brought his hands up to his face, rubbing it hard, skin still hot despite the cold air around them. "Goddamn it, William."

"Sherlock."

"Arrgh, why? Why Sherlock? Why William?"

The man without a solid name shrugged casually, holding his wine up to his lips but not drinking. "Friends and family call me Sherlock."

John's head couldn't navigate this very well. "Friends? What friends?"

The genius sighed, rolling his eyes. "Well up until about two minutes ago I _had_ friends, though now it's probably back down to just Greg if the look on your face is anything to go by."

John realised too late that he had been scrunching his face up in confusion. "William..." He shut his eyes for a moment. "Sorry. Sherlock." He glanced up at him, a small nod offered his way in return. "I'm still your friend, I just need to remember that you're... you're..."

"I'm...?"

"Even more awkward in real life than online." Yes, that was accurate enough. "Bloody changeable, too."

Sherlock set the glass of wine down on the windowsill next to him and slowly slipped his hands inside his pockets. "You think I'm an arsehole right now, don't you?"

"Yeah, a bit."

The burning gaze was back, fixated completely on John as Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels slightly; John found himself rooted to the spot, wondering inwardly if Sherlock had any bloody clue how intense he was, knowing deep down that the clueless man probably had absolutely no idea. No wonder he'd been propositioned three times tonight, if he was looking at the insanely drunk girls with those eyes. If John was a rabbit caught in Sherlock's headlights then those girls were already roadkill.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, maintaining his steady focus.

"If I'm being an arsehole, John, it's merely out of concern. As your friend, and I assure you that I'm intent on keeping that title, it's my duty to look out for you. I read about it."

"You..." John squinted, not sure he'd heard right. "You read about it."

"Yes."

"...where, exactly?"

A pained expression flashed across Sherlock's partly-shadowed face. "Google."

For a moment John could do nothing but stare at the man, eyes wide as he processed the information handed to him on a golden platter; it was only as Sherlock started to frown at his lack of reaction that John felt the laughter bubbling from the depths of his throat, grin spreading across his face as the noise began to slip out from between his lips, too loud but impossible to stop. The pained expression was back on Sherlock's face, his arms folding across his chest as he stared daggers at his smaller friend.

"What? Why are you _laughing_ at me?"

John could not stop. Peals of laughter shot around the garden, loud enough that eyes from the kitchen began to peek outside, so loud and long that Sherlock began to look concerned for his friend's sanity, reaching out with a hand but not quite touching him.

"John. _John!_ You sound like you're having a fit, calm down!"

Without thinking about what he was doing, John reached out and batted Sherlock's large hand out of his way; his warmth was a stark contrast to Sherlock's cold skin and the effect was instantaneous. Sherlock took a rapid step backwards, pulling his hand back as if it had been burned; John's sharp intake of breath ceased all laughter and brought to him an overwhelming sense of clarity, mind and vision clear as he took in the sight of Sherlock's blank, shocked expression. He had no idea if it was just the fact that the two hadn't touched until now, or perhaps because the temperature difference had been so surprising... but then, there _was_ a more likely option. Both he and Sherlock were people who did not _touch_. They didn't hug, didn't shake hands for longer than was necessary. He didn't need to be a genius to work out that blatant similarity in their personalities, and in all honesty it was actually a bit of a relief to know that he wouldn't have to go through all of the awkwardness forced upon him by people like Mike and Molly, connoisseurs in physical affection. He and Sherlock didn't have to do that if they didn't want to, and he had no doubt in his mind that _that_ would ever change.

He spoke, if only to break through the tension. "Sorry – about the laughter. I just... you hate Google. And you Googled 'friendship'. I told you to do that and you did it."

Staring at him apprehensively, Sherlock waited a few beats before responding, repeating words John had used only a few hours ago in low, melodic waves of sound. "I'm not your bitch, John."

A brief smile flitted across John's face, his head tilting slightly to one side. "Wanna bet?"

Before Sherlock had a chance to bite back, a retort already freshly curled on his tongue, a loud crunching noise signalling the opening of the garden door interrupted them both and bathed them in a flood of light, Greg's well-built silhouette blocking out any view of anything behind him.

"There you are, you bastard. You owe me three shots of Sambuca for the clapping game."

John's eyes slid to meet Sherlock's; there was a moment of unspoken conversation,a flashback to earlier. It was not difficult to say what he said next.

"I'll give it a miss, Greg. Think I'm gonna head off soon."

"No!"

"Yes," John said firmly, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging apologetically. "I'll call a cab and head back to campus. Sorry, mate, I'm just exhausted. I said I'd only stay for an hour and it's already been two and a half -"

"I'll see to it that he gets home safely," Sherlock's voice said carelessly from behind John, though if his ears were working correctly John picked up a tone of authority within it that he had not heard before now. "Don't worry, Greg. Get back to the party."

Greg frowned, almost pouting. "Yeah, but -"

"As I said." The edge of warning in Sherlock's voice was startling. "I'll take care of him from here."

The hockey-player's eyes shifted from man to man, attempting to read the situation between them with a drunken, unsteady gaze.

His eyes widened. "Oh, Jesus... fuck, yeah, all right. You... you take care of him then, Sherlock. John, mate..." He shrugged, hands raising to the night sky. "Thanks for coming, yeah? I'll tell John – I mean, Mike -"

"Thank you," Sherlock interrupted, his voice suddenly closer than before, close enough that John could smell a hint of wine, the feel of breath against his hair. Without prior warning Sherlock's hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder, the cold of his skin radiating through the material and making the shorter man shiver slightly as he put the tiniest hint of pressure on it. It was a direction, a hint. "I'll take it from here."

Leaving a gaping Greg standing in the kitchen doorway, John allowed Sherlock to steer him to the other side of the garden and to the small metal gate. The taller man leaned down and unlatched it with a flick of his fingers, a murmur falling from his lips and onto John's shoulder as he did so.

"Don't look back, just keep walking."

The hand still lightly grasping his shoulder and John's mind slowly working away at what his mind was yelling at him, he continued to be led around into a small alleyway until they were safely outside the front of the house. Sherlock's hand was immediately removed, replacing his grip on John's shoulder with a grip on his phone instead as he searched rapidly for the number for a taxi service.

Finally John found himself able to speak the words his brain was hazily shouting.

"You know that Greg probably thinks we're gay now."

Sherlock glanced up, flashing him the tiniest of grins. "I certainly hope so."


	10. Chapter 10

**Really tiny one... hope it staves off the hunger for a little while whilst I write the next chapter! ^_^**

**Chapter Ten**

John could not say that he was conscious. He was awake, it was true, but the sheer velocity of his headache and the constant desire to drift back into a sleep that tasted of Sambuca and hangover was just too powerful. His mind failed to connect with anything, though for the first time in a long time this was largely down to mitigating circumstances rather than the big black dog: yet another point scored for alcohol. Never before had he considered being hungover as a good thing, but suffice it to say that it was a welcome relief not to feel the crushing weight of nothingness and instead feel the dragging ache of a baby migraine.

Flapping his hand out to the bedside cabinet, he hit the surface until he felt it connect with plastic; wrapping his fingers around his phone was a challenge, but after a few minutes of mild groaning and a few choice swear words he managed to hover the thing over his face and press a button to wake up the screen.

_**3 New Messages**_

Groaning again, he unlocked the screen and opened his text messaging inbox.

_**Mike: **_

_Whre did ugo? Greg said u left with his housem88?! Cal me 2moro_

_**Mike: **_

_Fucking christ my head hurts. Sorry about the text last night, lost grip of the English language. Greg said you were looking pretty cosy with his housemate before you left. You should probably text him before the gay rumours start...!_

_**William:**_

_Don't forget to change my name in your phonebook. _

_Text me when you wake up._

_SH_

John groaned for the millionth time that morning, dragging his hand down his face and feeling the images of the night before flood back to him. He could remember things in general, blurry detail, though some things stuck out in particular: Sherlock's intense gaze during his warning about substance abuse; the clapping game; the final shot of Sambuca; Molly and her constant cheek-kissing; Sherlock's hand on his shoulder; Greg's face when he thought they were gay – oh god. Oh _god_. The gay rumours really were about to start if John didn't get a head-start first.

Quickly he opened Sherlock's message first, tapping to reply and hammering out a response as quickly as possible:

_I'm awake, not necessarily a good choice!_

Then he opened a fresh text message, choosing his words carefully:

_Thanks for last night mate, was a great one – will definitely come to more of your parties! Lucky Sherlock was there, he was determined to get me home before I passed out! What are friends for, eh? Cheers again Greg, hope to see you again soon._

He barely had a chance to put his phone down when the screen lit up.

_**William:**_

_Already spoken to Greg about last night; he's definitely under the impression that there's something going on, though he didn't say as such. Easy to read. Didn't say anything in denial, hope that's all right._

_I expect you have a rather severe headache?_

_SH_

Why the _hell_ hadn't he said anything in denial?!

_Sherlock, you do realise that we're not gay? If you let him run with this the whole bloody university is going to think something's going on, and believe me when I say that is NOT the sort of rumour I want going around!_

Pushed into consciousness by Sherlock's ignorance, John managed to pull enough energy from within him to swing his legs out of bed and groan himself into a standing position; his head swam, alcohol clearly not yet out of his system. He staggered over to the door, taking a quick trip to the toilet before staggering back and leaning himself against the cool sink as he filled a glass with water and drank it down thirstily. He did this three more times before his stomach felt so full and bloated that he could drink no more, then reaching for his toothbrush and starting his morning routine in order to make himself feel more human. As he brushed his teeth he shuffled back over to the bed, plucking his phone from amidst the blankets and reading Sherlock's latest message:

_**William:**_

_I'm intrigued as to what sort of rumour you would be pleased about, though not so interested that I want you to explain. Of course I'm well aware of my own sexuality and yours is certainly easy enough to read, I just didn't see the denial of Greg's assumption to be an absolute necessity. Now that I know how much you're aggravated by the idea of our non-existent love-affair coming to light, I shall of course speak to him and assure him that I have no interest in sex with you, or anyone else for that matter._

_A walk would do your head wonders. I'm on campus at 3pm for an extra-credit lecture. Meet afterwards?_

_SH_

John rolled his eyes (groaning at the nausea it inspired) and spat the white swirl of toothpaste out into the sink, swilling a mouthful of water and spitting that out too for good measure. Sherlock really was the most ignorant man on the planet, at least about real-life things. Though it was great that the man had no issue with people thinking he was gay, John himself was more than a little uncomfortable at the prospect of people considering him as such – not that he had anything against it, of course. His sister was gay, after all. He just… wasn't. No point adding fuel to a rumour that had no truth.

_Thanks. I don't mean to be weird about it, I just don't want people to start setting me up with their brothers, that's all! And another face-to-face meeting just hours after our last? What happened to the man who doesn't like seeing people beyond a laptop screen? _

Chucking his phone back onto the bed and pulling open his wardrobe to see what clean clothes he had available to him (slim pickings, he'd really have to do some washing soon), he ended up reluctantly choosing a plain white shirt and a black and grey striped jumper to go over the top – not his usual style at all, but it would have to do when the rest of his options were t-shirts that would drown his small frame, and dirty, probably a bit smelly clothes he really, seriously needed to chuck in the wash.

As he pulled on his jeans and glanced at his reflection in the mirror he suddenly found himself slowing down, staring at the face he had not properly seen in the longest time; it hit him that here he was, certainly still depressed but somehow and suddenly energised enough to actually make the effort to choose clothes that weren't ill-fitting, weren't unclean. Not only was he dressing in order to look passable – mustn't forget the victory that was putting on deodorant – he was actually planning on leaving his room. To _see_ someone. Not just anyone, either – someone who he had so recently detested but, within a few days, had come to view as someone who was far more of a positive influence on his life than a negative one. Though he knew at some point the worm would turn and whatever effect the alcohol was still having on him would dissipate, leaving him back in the grey, he was genuinely almost overwhelmed with how _good_ it felt to be doing something… ordinary. Getting ready to go and meet a friend. _Ordinary_.

Sherlock, however, was as far away from ordinary as John could see.

Pulling himself away from his thoughts, he leaned down and once more picked up his phone – two messages from Sherlock this time:

_**William:**_

_I understand, John. It can be uncomfortable to be considered homosexual. I am sure you are not alone in that feeling._

_I'm merely meeting up with you for your benefit. You need the oxygen._

_**William:**_

_And possibly dinner._

**-X-**

The lecture theatre was completely packed out. John was alternating between casually leaning on the wall outside of the room and subtly trying to see through the sliver of glass but, as of yet, he hadn't managed to catch a glimpse of Sherlock in the mass of students taking notes. He vaguely remembered short, dark, messy curls from the night before – nothing _close_ to what he had expected – but the majority of students in the class seemed to be girls, only nine or ten men dotted around the room. He was tempted to crack open the door to find out what class it was that Sherlock was taking, pressing his face up against the glass to see if he could read the presentation currently projected onto a giant screen –

And there he was. Not sitting with the students as John had expected, feverishly scribbling notes and gazing up with mild respect at the lecturer, oh no. Sherlock stood, chin tilted slightly up in his trademark show of arrogance and his body held straight and tall behind the giant wooden lectern as his eyes roved the room and lips moved with no doubt reams of relevant information, completely and utterly in control: Sherlock wasn't _attending_ the lecture, he was bloody _leading_ it.

John swore loudly.

Pale-blue eyes locked onto his.

Throwing himself away from the door and pressing himself flat up against the wall opposite, John breathed out a silent laugh of nervous disbelief. Had Sherlock not thought to mention that he _taught lectures_? Was he dead-set on continuing to surprise his newest friend? First he lived with Greg Lestrade, then he had a different name… now apparently he was a peer of the university, a lecturer in his spare time. What would be next?

Time-share in Dubai?

Chuckling quietly to himself, John reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone to check the time; he pressed the power button and waited impatiently as his screen took its time to light up before him.

_**O2 UK**_

_**3:56pm**_

_**1 New Message**_

Instantly he knew, a half-grin slowly emerging onto his lips.

_**William:**_

_Really John, I could do without the distraction of you staring at me whilst I'm trying to lecture a class full of students._

_SH_

Without even having a chance to reply, another message appeared:

_**William:**_

_The swearing is also distracting. _

_Not as much as the staring, though._

_SH_


	11. Chapter 11

**Wrote this whilst I was absolutely exhausted, so if it's a pile of poop I'm genuinely sorry! I know it's really short too, but was still tons of fun to write!**

**In other news, I took a wander over to Baker Street today and bought myself a little tiny violin in a little tiny violin case from the Sherlock Holmes museum. Saw a duck and named it Lestrade. Was a damned good day.**

**R&R's appreciated, always!**

**Chapter Eleven**

Sherlock sighed in exasperation, grabbing a roll from the basket and biting off the tiniest chunk imaginable. "There. I've eaten. Happy now?"

Twisting his spaghetti around his fork and pointing towards the plate of untouched food in front of his clearly unmanageable friend, John shook his head. "Sherlock, one bite of bread doesn't make for a meal. I can't believe I even have to tell you this but you've _got_ to eat your dinner."

"I'm not a child," Sherlock grumbled, pushing the plate away and towards John. "If you want it eaten so much, _you_ eat it."

"No, no, because that would be completely missing the point," John replied calmly, bringing the sauce-covered mouthful to his lips and scraping it from the fork with his teeth. Slowly he chewed, looking pointedly at Sherlock. "You see? Not difficult."

"Says the man who yesterday only ate a handful of stale cornflakes," muttered the difficult dinner companion, continuing to ignore the food and reaching for his glass of wine instead. "If anyone should be eating their fair share, it's you. You're losing too much weight."

John gently put the fork down and put his hand around his own glass, iced water with lemon. Up until the food had arrived he had been finding it almost too easy to enjoy himself after Sherlock had left the lecture hall; he had of course been berated by the student-lecturer, practically told off for distracting him during teaching, but they'd kept up a steady stream of banter the whole walk around campus. By the time they'd reached a point of silence that couldn't be filled it had started to get dark, leading the curly-haired genius to suggest walking down into Greenwich high street to find somewhere to eat, a suggestion that John had taken him up on despite feeling no real desire to eat. He knew he wasn't fixed, nor was he ready to start making outings on a regular basis, but the day had been such an easy one to enjoy that he hadn't quite wanted to go back to his room and end it until he was absolutely ready to collapse.

They'd come across a little Italian place, the smell of garlic strong and the restaurant itself almost completely empty – Sherlock had given the nod, the two of them ducking into the dimly lit warmth and being taken to a large table more suitable for four and immediately served drinks. Sherlock had ordered a bottle of red wine before John could stop him, his desire to avoid alcohol of all types for at _least_ a week so strong that he'd almost gagged at the mere scent of it being poured leisurely into a glass. He'd quickly requested a glass of water, earning him a knowing look from Sherlock and a disappointed one from the waiter who clearly was desperate to have them drink enough to make up for the obvious lack of consumers that evening.

There was no idle chit-chat; Sherlock had already made it clear he had no patience for such things, rolling his eyes whenever John mentioned the weather or tried to initiate a conversation about Sherlock's family. Instead they had sat in almost companionable silence, Sherlock occasionally remarking on people walking past the large window overlooking the high street – cutting remarks, usually, smirking depictions of their infidelity, nicotine addictions and general faults and failures. John was fine with this. He was starting to get used to the fact that Sherlock wasn't quite like any friend he'd had before and that the things he said weren't said out of spite or cruelty, merely because they came to mind and he saw no reason to hold back what he was really thinking.

Basically, the man was a sociopath. Sherlock had even said it himself after his fifth scathing comment about a passer-by, almost a tinge of pride in his low tones as he had explained.

"I know how to act of course, it's all easy enough to pick up on simply from watching people – like animals at the zoo." His expression had been completely serious, not seeing a single thing wrong with his analysis. "I could walk up to any single person outside and talk to them without batting an eyelid, it's not a difficult task and one I've undertaken on occasion when it's absolutely necessary to have to do so. It's as easy as anything else."

"But you don't understand it? Don't... feel it? Anything?" John had been genuinely curious, cupping his glass between his hands and staring across the table at his friend intently.

Sherlock had smiled slightly, fleetingly. "Sentiment. It's not something I indulge in."

Nor, apparently, were good table manners. Their food had arrived and had smelled delicious – even John had felt a pang in his stomach at how good it all looked – and yet Sherlock had ignored it completely, turning away from John and staring out of the window as if he had completely forgotten where he was and the fact that he was actually with someone other than the snarky voices in his head. John had waited for Sherlock to bring his attention to the plate of steaming pasta, waiting for some sign that the man had remembered what he was doing... but all Sherlock had done was turn back to John and sigh, leaning his cheek against his hand.

"I'm bored. Let's go and do something else."

From then on it had been one battle after another. After ten minutes of trying to cajole the young man into eating his food (and finding himself faced with a 6ft child) he had instead tried encouraging him to drink his wine, hoping that in the very least a tipsy Sherlock would be an easier one to deal with – a terrible mistake. Not only did Sherlock become increasingly irritating, he also started to pick at John for different things that were absolutely none of his business. First it had been his hair: "You need to get it cut, you're starting to look like a street urchin from the seventies"; it had rapidly moved on to his intelligence: "I'm not saying you're an idiot, John, but one day I'm going to stop tutoring you and you'll have to actually do your work without my constant guidance"; now it had apparently shifted back to his appearance, padded cleverly by Sherlock's apparent concern at his lack of eating.

John dabbed at the his lips with a napkin, determined not to be antagonised. "You aren't my mother, Sherlock, and I'm eating fine."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, raking his eyes up and down John's form. "You're wearing jeans you bought three years ago and you think you're fine? You haven't fit into those in a year and a half, John, and within two months you've lost enough weight to find they only just stay up without a belt. _That_," he jabbed his finger towards the shorter man accusingly, "does not signify someone who is eating as much as they should be."

John raised his hand to signal the waiter, ignoring Sherlock. "Yeah, hi, excuse me? Yes, we'd like the bill please."

Sherlock visibly brightened, sitting up straight and bringing his hands together in front of him. "Oh good, are we done here? We could go for a walk up to Greenwich Park, visit the observatory."

Taking the little leather book from the waiter and flipping it open to check the bill, John pulled out his wallet and took out a ten pound note. "It's quarter to eight, the observatory's closed now. You owe twenty," he added, putting the bill down with his ten pounds underneath it. "The wine and your untouched meal, you know."

"Don't be silly, John, I'll get this," Sherlock said with a frown, brushing John's money aside with a flick of his fingers and reaching into his jacket pocket for his wallet. He took out £40 and placed it underneath the bill, slipping his wallet back inside his jacket and pushing his chair back, readying himself to leave. "And I was hardly talking about going in there when it's heaving with people, was I?"

"Just pay your part," John insisted, pushing his £10 back into the middle of the table and standing up, heading towards the door of the restaurant without giving Sherlock a chance to argue. "And if you're implying what I think you're implying you can bloody well forget it."

He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the cold street, glancing both ways up the high street. He slipped his jacket on but left the buttons undone, slipping his hands into his pockets as he waited for Sherlock to follow him out into the darkness.

The deep voice came from right behind him, making him jump. "It's so much more fun to do it my way."

It took John a moment to realise that Sherlock was referring to the observatory. He started to walk, knowing the tall pain in his arse would follow. "It's called _breaking and entering,_ Sherlock, and it's a crime. I don't know if it's on your to-do list to get arrested by the time you graduate for what I assume is the tenth time running, but it's not on mine. I'll walk you back to your place and get a cab back to campus from there."

Sherlock caught up quickly, falling into his long and graceful stride at John's left-hand side. "You've never seen anything quite like it, John. It's a wonderful place to explore after opening hours."

"No," John replied firmly, stopping at traffic lights and looking either way before making a quick walk to the other side. "I'm going to walk you home, call a cab, get back to my room and sleep for at least ten hours. God knows I'm exhausted, think the alcohol is finally totally out of my system..."

"It's been out of your system for three hours now, you've just been too distracted to notice," his friend said, infinitely distracted himself. "Come on, a nice jaunty walk up to the park, break into the observatory, have a bit of a wander and then we can make our way back down! We can even get coffee on the way home if you'd like," he offered in apparent generosity, opening his hands wide to signify his genuine intent to provide hot drinks."I'll pay. I'll pay for your cab back too, if you come with me now."

John stopped in the middle of a path, hands still deep in his pockets. "Why are you so intent on my breaking into the observatory with you?"

Sherlock walked a few steps further ahead, only stopping when he realised that John wasn't immediately following. "You ask like it's a bad thing."

"No, not bad," John allowed, tilting his head to one side and trying to read the odd man, "just a bit... a bit weird. Do you really have nothing better to do with your time than break into famous landmarks?"

Sherlock was by his side again in two short strides, reaching out and grabbing John firmly by the arms and giving him a small shake. "It's _Saturday_, John. _Saturday!_" His eyes were determined, wholly fixated on John's own confused stare. "Saturday is when it _happens_!"

"Wh..." John shook his head, wishing not for the first time that Sherlock would just bloody make sense without needing a translation. "What happens? What are you talking about?"

Sherlock's face suddenly widened into a huge grin, his grip tightening even more on John's arms as he gave him one final, resounding shake. "Life, John! Life itself!" Suddenly he was moving closer, so close that John could smell the wine on his breath, feel the warmth of the taller man's every exhale ruffling the top of his hair; Sherlock's face came within inches of his, leaning down slightly until he was perfectly at eye-level. "Let me show you how I live it!"

Leaning back slightly but somehow managing to fight the urge to claw Sherlock's tight grasp from around his arms, heart thumping a little erratically at the sudden burst of adrenaline that shot through his system, he forced himself to meet Sherlock's intense, somewhat manic stare with his own calm, steady one. He saw the mania in the man's face, saw his desperation and he found he could not turn away from it, couldn't back away. With an inward sigh and a not-so-inward curse, he finally nodded.

"All right. I'll come. But," he quickly said, raising a finger in the air, "only if you promise to stop acting like a child. And next time actually eat some of your dinner."

Sherlock released him, giving him a sharp, emphatic nod. "Deal. A very fair deal."

John shook his head, changing direction to start heading towards the park. "You really are hard work, you know that?"

The man fell into step by his side, large hands shoved into his pockets as his shoulders raised in a casual shrug. "But you're here, aren't you? That has to mean I'm doing something right."


	12. Chapter 12

**My favourite chapter so far, hands down. So much freaking fun to write! :D ENJOY! Love to all who have reviewed so far, you're bloody fantastic!**

* * *

**Chapter Twelve**

John glanced around him warily, all too conscious of the people walking by, all of whom could very easily figure out what was going on behind him. "Sherlock, if I haven't said this already I think this is a _terrible_ idea which will probably lead to a criminal record that I _genuinely _don't want to have." He stamped his feet nervously, glancing back at his companion. "Can we please just give up and go home?"

A muttered 'damn' and the tiny sound of a lock being jimmied. "They've changed the locks since last time, this bloody thing won't go in -"

"I'm serious, we're going to end up getting found out and I _know_ that you'll find some way to avoid getting caught and it'll just be me getting arrested and charged with breaking and entering." He glanced back over his shoulder at Sherlock, watching the man's face twist into frustration. "Why don't we just come back when it's open?"

"Don't be an idiot, John, that completely defeats the point of this."

John turned fully towards Sherlock, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets. "And what exactly _is_ the point of this, if you're not too distracted breaking into a listed building to answer?"

Sherlock sighed, pausing his criminal activity for a few moments. "The point of this is to do something you wouldn't usually do. Now will you be quiet and continue to keep a lookout? Contrary to popular belief," he began fiddling with the locks again before darting off around to climb behind some shrubbery, "I don't want to add to my arrest sheet."

"Fine," John muttered, turning away only to turn back a moment later with a frown. "Hang on, add to your arrest sheet?_ Add_ to it?"

"Another story for another day," Sherlock's voice came from somewhere behind a bush. "I _think_ I might have found a window..." The squeak of old, possibly damp wood filled the air between them. "Yes!" Sherlock hissed, suddenly popping out from behind the large bush. "Come on John, into the fray!"

Swearing under his breath, John strode over to where Sherlock had suddenly vanished again, following the sound to see a window half-open and a leg disappearing into the darkness within the old building. "Sherlock, I'm asking one more time -"

"John, quick, someone's coming!"

Eyes widening and mind unable to keep up, John shoved past the shrubbery and gripped the ledge of the windowsill, throwing his leg over into the open window and throwing his body weight into the empty space inside; he fell through gracelessly, staggering as he dragged his other leg through and finding himself quite without balance as he reached out into the dark room for something to grab onto -

A pair of hands grabbed him by the arms, dragging him further into the room and behind a large piece of equipment he could barely see. The hands kept hold of him and steadied him, pushing him against whatever he was now hiding behind and gripping him tightly as John's breathing hitched unsteadily in his throat. A familiar scent washed over him as the slightly rough material of the long coat Sherlock had been wearing scratched lightly against his cheek, the sound of someone else breathing steadily close to him settling in the whorl of his ears; he was suddenly aware of the proximity of the body close to him and the heat it was emitting, both reassuring and alarming as he attempted to calm his breathing and slow his racing heart, a seemingly impossible task.

Adrenaline pumped through him like a drug. "Sherlock, what -"

"Shh." The noise was far too close to his ear for comfort, the breath warm against his cool skin. He felt Sherlock shift, hands loosening their grip on his arms and eventually letting go despite him still remaining almost pressed against the smaller man. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. "There's a security guard out in the hall."

John swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry and palms beginning to sweat. He tried to match Sherlock's volume. "If the person you saw is _in here_, why didn't you just come back outside?"

"And ruin all the fun?" There was a breathy laugh, still too loud in the empty darkness; the body so close to John's moved away slightly as Sherlock seemed to lean around the large equipment to check the guard's whereabouts. "Don't be silly."

They stayed still in the darkness for a few moments longer, John eventually regaining a somewhat steady heartbeat and and regulating his breathing back to normal; the buzz of the adrenaline continued though, his entire body seeming to shake from it. "Sherlock -"

The body suddenly moved away completely, stepping back and to the side. With a little distance between them John could see Sherlock's face bathed in what moonlight managed to fall through the open window, that same mania from before glittering in his icy eyes which were now turned towards him, the tiniest of grins playing on his lips. "There. He's gone."

John shook his head, head turning to glance around himself. "This is mad. You are _mad_."

"Oh please, you've never felt better," Sherlock said triumphantly, tilting his chin up as he raked his eyes over his friend. "Look at you, you're the epitome of 'jacked up' just from climbing through a window."

"That's _fear_ Sherlock, not enjoyment!"

"Liar." Sherlock turned away from him, walking slowly to the edge of the room to where glass cases stood in a row, pictures and documents behind them waiting to be read. "Elevated heart-rate, dilated pupils, rapid breathing -"

"All symptoms of _fear_." John followed quietly behind the taller man, glancing edgily around him.

"And enjoyment," Sherlock replied in a low voice, his fingers reaching out and brushing against the glass. "Don't deny it, you feel more alive right now than you have since you started university. Possibly even before."

John rolled his eyes. "Fear."

"_Enjoyment._"

"Fine," John gave up, raising his hands in defeat, "I'm enjoying myself. Happy?"

Sherlock shot him sidelong glance, eyes narrowed. "Smile, then."

Forcing his signature 'I'm depressed but pretending I'm fine' smile, John held his arms open wide as he displayed himself for the demanding genius. "There, is that better?"

"Barely." Sherlock turned away from him, striding towards the other side of the room. "Come on, we've got more rooms to break into."

Exasperated, John watched his friend walk purposefully away before giving in and following him, wondering if this would be the way it would always be – Sherlock would always be right, and John would always follow.

**-X-**

Leaning over, breathing so laboured he could see stars and could hear only of the sound of maniacal laughter beside him, John shook his head slowly and deliberately from side to side, face hot and the cold air doing nothing to cool him down. "Fucking _hell_ Sherlock... fucking hell!"

"Your face," Sherlock laughed, body spasming in laughter as he leaned himself against a tree and tilted his head back to rest against the solid bark. "Your face is _fantastic!_ I wish you could've seen yourself."

"How the hell did you get away?" John was gasping for air, wondering how the idiot was still standing after their mad dash from the observatory. "He was twice your size, he had you in a headlock -"

Sherlock grinned, eyes directed to the sky above them. "Experience, far too much experience. Did you really think we were caught?"

John looked up at him, radiating disbelief. "Are you joking? We _were_ caught, they saw our faces! They... Sherlock, one of them _had you in a bloody headlock!"_

"Oh, only for a bit..."

"You're a madman and a psychopath," John breathed, forcing himself to stand up straight as his entire body shook with the sheer effort of doing so. "And I am _never_ going along with one of your plans again, never ever _ever_ again."

Sherlock pushed himself off of the tree and glanced down at him, grin slowly getting smaller until it was a simple tilt of his lips. "Yes you will. And it's sociopath, not psychopath. There's a very pronounced difference."

"You're still a madman."

"True," Sherlock allowed, eyes glancing around them at the near-empty park. "But it was still the most fun you've had all year."

John shook his head again, pressing a hand to his chest. "No, that would be the third night I was here, back at Sally Donovan's flat. Don't underrate a night of limited conversation and sex."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, frowning as he let this information work its way through his brain. "Sally Donovan? You had sex with Sally Donovan?"

"Yeah."

"Sally Donovan as in first year physical education degree Sally Donovan?"

John rolled his eyes, resting his hands on his hips and taking in one last deep breath as his lungs finally began to adapt. "That would be her. Why, do you know her?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled in disgust. "I know enough of her to know she's far and away from being good enough for you."

A laugh slipped from John's throat. "It's not like she was my girlfriend, Sherlock, it was just one night."

"Is that your taste, then? Girls with a superiority complex?"

The tone of Sherlock's voice was greatly amusing to John. He grinned. "Like I said, conversation was limited."

"That doesn't answer my question."

Looking properly at Sherlock, John realised that the man was genuinely asking, genuinely curious despite his obvious aversion to discussing such topics. He thought about it for a moment. "Well, it was less about personality and more about what she looked like. She had nice hair."

"Frizzy," Sherlock muttered, shifting from one foot to another. "Rough to the touch."

John couldn't help it; he looked to Sherlock's own mess of curls, raising an eyebrow. "You're one to talk. As for superiority complex, well, pot calling the -"

"Yes yes, I'm a black pot, I know," Sherlock cut across irritably, eyes flashing. "And my hair isn't rough or frizzy, thank you very much, not that it matters."

"Well, I guess that means you're not my type then," John teased with a grin; he couldn't swear to it, but there was a definite twitch to Sherlock's lips that could have almost been a smile. "Really, Sherlock, it was one night of sex and never hearing from each other again. Meaningless."

Sherlock began to walk, his pace leisurely, talking despite no longer facing John. "It surprises me."

John fell naturally into step beside him, legs still slightly weak from the insane run he'd done just minutes earlier. "What does?"

"That you would choose to have sex with someone who doesn't mean anything to you. You don't strike me as the type to indulge in one-night affairs with strange women."

John shrugged. "It wasn't like I've done it before... it just seemed like it didn't matter so much, being at university and everything. It's not something I'd usually do, it was just that the opportunity arose and I... took it."

Sherlock's head turned slightly; John could feel his eyes on him, the infamous x-ray vision setting turned on maximum. "Was she... you know."

He genuinely didn't. "Was she what? Good?"

"No!" Sherlock made a small noise of repulsion, waving the word away with his hand. "Please, don't bore me with those details."

"Then...?"

"Was she your... first?"

"My first? Oh..." The meaning sunk in; John cleared his throat, uncomfortable. "I don't really... is that really something you want to know?"

Sherlock's eyes flitted away. "I assume it's not the sort of question I'm supposed to ask, then."

"No, it's all right, it's just..." John hesitated, his shoulders rising slightly against both the cold and the topic of conversation. "It's fine. No, Sally wasn't my first."

"I see. So she was your rebound."

"Ye- hang on, how do you know that?" John stopped, realising the stupidity of the question. "Don't bother answering, I forgot that you know everything about me."

Sherlock stopped too, turning his body slightly towards him. "It was an easy deduction. Your tone upon my bringing it up was quiet, pained. You frowned, even if momentarily, and your fists clenched in your pockets despite it being a relatively innocuous question. Clearly you don't like to talk about it because the other person you've slept with most likely broke up with you, probably just before you started at university."

_Fucking genius bastard._ "You... are _far_ too observant."

"A child could have worked it out."

John shook his head. "I really hope not."

Sherlock smiled slightly, starting to walk again, indicating with his head that John should follow – as if there was any doubt that he would. "So your actual type is more likely the exact opposite of Sally Donovan. Fair hair, perhaps blue but more likely green eyes, pale skin, likely to have been younger than you -"

"I wish you wouldn't do that," John mumbled, the very image of Sarah popping up behind his eyes at Sherlock's bang-on description. "You're too good at it."

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. "My apologies."

John looked up at him, face unreadable but tone genuinely sorry. "Don't worry about it. It was a long time ago."

"Not that long," Sherlock disagreed quietly. "Or not long enough that you're feeling... _better_ about it."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because you still look like you're suffering simply from talking about her." Sherlock stopped in his tracks again, his gaze suddenly so intense and focused on John that even if Sherlock _hadn't_ stopped walking John would have had to simply to recover. "Is she the reason you have depression?"

Staring at him, John's tongue darted out from between his lips, the soft skin suddenly dry. "No. I was fine until two months ago, you know that already."

"But it doesn't help."

The laugh that barked from John's throat was humourless, flat. "In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock, _nothing _helps."

Sherlock's expression flickered, momentarily torn between his usual solemn expression and something John couldn't quite define; before he had a chance to decide quite what it was, Sherlock had started walking again, eyes back on their path. "Of course. How stupid of me."

"No, wait -" John realised what he had said too late, inwardly cursing, "- I didn't mean _nothing -_"

"I understand perfectly well what you were saying, John, there's no need to explain."

"Yes there is," John insisted, a strange weight unfurling in his chest and weighing far too heavy for comfort; he took two quick steps towards the taller man and reached out without thinking, grabbing the edge of Sherlock's sleeve between cold fingers and curling the material into his palm. Sherlock stopped instantly, head turning and eyes darting down to where John's fingers were now grasped before flickering back up to meet John's intent gaze. "There's every reason to explain. I didn't mean it like that."

Sherlock stayed silent, his eyes boring into John's. It made him feel as if his mouth was suddenly full of cotton – dry, useless. He swallowed thickly, knowing he should drop the subject and the sleeve but unwilling to let go of either.

"You must know... you must have an _inkling_ of... come _on_."

Slowly Sherlock turned his slender body completely towards John, eyes remaining fixed on his face, unreadable; as he moved, the direction he had turned altered the position of both of their hands, Sherlock's warm and curled fingers brushing lightly against John's cold wrist and dragging from the smaller man's throat a sharp intake of breath and the tiniest jerk of surprise. The ice-blue eyes travelled lower once more, taking in John's hand on his coat for a few moments before raising them back to rest levelly against the gaze that John could not break.

The intensity was alarming, out of place, yet still John did not let go of the sleeve. His hand felt frozen, the combination of Sherlock's stare and the tiny warmth resting against his wrist temporarily stealing all vocabulary though his mind continued to whirr.

_Let go of him! Neither of you are comfortable touching and YOU started it!_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, almost as if he could hear John's thoughts; this did not stop the thoughts from continuing to shout, belligerent.

_You've made your point, he's stopped walking – let... go... of... the... SLEEVE!_

"John."

Sherlock's deep voice broke through his reverie like hot water; almost as if his vocal chords had unlocked, John's voice burst out into the darkness with words he had actually not been thinking at all:

"You're the _only_ thing that isn't _nothing_ to me right now."

Sherlock's gaze burned, silent as he let the words settle between them. "You don't need to say that."

"But it's true," John pressed, fist clenching tighter over the material briefly, the warmth of Sherlock's fingers retreating as he did so. "You were right earlier – not that I need to tell you that, you know everything that there ever was to know, but you were absolutely right. It was the most fun I've had. All year." Finally he managed to pull his hand away, almost as if the words of truth had released the impossible grip on the rough material and allowed him to break free of the awkward intensity. "Not even a naked Sally Donovan made my heart race, lungs ache or... palms _sweat_ as much as you did earlier." A shaky grin fell across his face, incredulous, ready with a joke even now. "And I _never_ thought I would say that, especially to a man. Especially to _you!_"

The air around them was quiet for a moment, the words settling around them and adding yet more substance to the foundation of their friendship – it was almost visible, stone walls and solid ground. Sherlock gave a small nod, gesturing with his hand that they should walk again; the mere action of this sent the atmosphere falling from intense to casual once again without a single beat missed, the beginning of a pattern neither of them could see coming. "I can't say I ever expected to hear you say those words either. Oranyone, for that matter."

Falling into a somewhat uneven step beside Sherlock's taller form, John took his words and decided now was the time, if any, to ask. "So you haven't...?"

"Never."

"Oh." Even though it had been the answer John had been expecting, it was still somewhat strange to have the definitive answer. "Out of choice, or...?"

Sherlock sighed, his breath coming out in a cloud of white. "If by choice you mean never having had the desire to attempt finding someone even relatively suitable for me then, yes, it's a choice."

"So..." John considered his words carefully, unsure of how to phrase something he wasn't even sure he wanted to say. "You haven't ever... wanted to?"

"It's not exactly high on my list of priorities. If I wanted to experience the symptoms of sexual excitement I'd just... well. I don't know. Break into a highly guarded building, perhaps."

John closed his eyes, fighting the grin that wanted to break out onto his cold face. "Okay, I hate to disappoint you but they really _aren't_ the same thing, Sherlock. You can't even compare the two. Sex is... yeah, no comparison. Sex wins. Criminal activity... doesn't quite cut it."

Sherlock shot him a sidelong glance, raising an eyebrow.

"Most fun you've had all year?"

"...oh, bugger."

"Precisely."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

John understood. He really did.

How often had he spent nights avoiding phone calls, texts, emails? There were the earlier days of depression where he'd spend time with Mike and Molly and Greg, perfectly fine, but once the sun had risen once more and he was forced awake by biology and sunshine he would find himself utterly unable to reach out to a single one of them and would hide himself away in the darkness of his room to recover from the mere effort of being with the people who genuinely liked him. There were, of course, the weeks where he would completely go without seeing anyone at all, curled up in a ball on his bed with only the empty space above his head to talk to – when he spoke at all. That in itself, during a day of nothing, was a miracle.

This, however, wasn't him. The issue wasn't John. The issue, much to his growing edginess, was Sherlock.

He'd been warned, of course; Sherlock had made sure right at the beginning that John knew how it might be, that he could disappear for days and not contact him, but an entire_ week_? At first John had been fine, leaving him to it, refraining from texting after lack of reply to his first couple of attempts to get in touch – though their circumstances weren't the same he was still willing to be understanding about a bit of distance. He'd had a few bad days himself, back to his old routine of not leaving his room and staring blankly at the wall with a thousand unidentifiable thoughts rolling around his mind and not thinking once of his newest friend... but a week. A whole WEEK.

He tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was already missing the influence of the curly-haired genius.

As he sat there on the eighth day, wearing a fresh hoodie (because he had literally found no clean clothes by the fifth day) and ratty jeans, he actually started to worry. So he picked up his phone, hesitating only for a moment, before calling him.

_Ring ring..._

_Ring ring..._

_Ring ring..._

_Ring - _

"Sherlock Holmes' phone."

A male voice, one he didn't recognise. He brought his phone away from his face, staring at it in confusion.

"Hello?"

He brought it back to his ear. "Um... hello."

"Oh, bravo, you _can_ speak English."

The voice was well-spoken, higher in pitch than Sherlock's. "Er, yes. Um... may I speak to Sherlock, please?"

A pause. "I'm afraid he's not available to come to the phone at the moment."

Not available? "Can I ask who I'm speaking to?"

"You may," the voice said, "but the more important question, I believe, is _who_ are _you_?"

John's jaw stiffened. "Someone who'd quite like to speak with Sherlock. Is there a reason he's unavailable or...?"

Another pause. "Ah. _You're_ the one."

"I'm sorry?"

"The self-diagnosed depressive pre-medical student. _John Watson_, I presume?"

At this he sat up a little straighter, frowning. "Sorry to be rude, but, who the hell exactly are you?"

A small laugh. "I see your powers of deduction are no better than he described. Pity. Very well, if we must do introductions – my name is Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock's... brother, and keeper, apparently."

John's eyebrows shot up into his messy fringe. "His brother? You mean the brother he hates?"

The silence this time was not one of hesitation but one clearly of disdain. "Though it comes to no surprise to me that he should refer to me that way, I do wish he would at least try to remain civil. Regardless, yes, that is who I am. And you are, as we have already established, John Watson -"

"Self-diagnised depressive pre-med student, right," John interrupted, making no effort to hide his irritation. "Glad to know that you both put aside your squabble long enough to talk about my personal life."

"Oh, I assure you, he was most reluctant to divulge anything at all."

John couldn't even wrap his head around this. "But you managed to get it out of him, clearly. Look, can I just talk to him, make sure he's all right?"

"Like I said," the voice said, the tiniest smidge of irritation coming through, "he is currently unavailable to talk to anyone."

Sighing in exasperation, John found himself standing in the middle of the room, ready to start pacing at any moment. "Well, what, is he ill? Drunk? In the middle of shagging someone?"

The laugh that came from his phone was altogether different from the last, full of mirth. "Oh, dear heavens, Sherlock in bed with someone... let's not make too many jokes in one sitting, John, we don't want to wear ourselves out! But perhaps the former, that he's ill... yes, that's most the most likely choice."

It was almost like he was trying to wind John up – and it was working. "Well, is he ill or not? It's not a difficult question."

"You _do_ have a short fuse, don't you?" Mycroft sounded mildly amused by the idea. "My brother is currently in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon, does that answer your question?"

Gritting his teeth, John decided that he'd had enough. He'd bloody well go down there. He strode towards the shoes discarded by the door, stuffing a foot in roughly. "Forget it. I'll find out for myself."

Instantly Mycroft's tone changed, an authority and edge to it which hadn't been there before. "I don't think that you will, John."

"Don't worry, I'll be there in fifteen minutes – I'm sure we'll get a chance to argue it out then." John leaned over and grabbed his keys from his desk, slamming his hand on the door handle and pulling it open. "Feel free to bugger off before I get there."

"Stay where you are, John."

"No bloody way."

"I said," the voice was now almost deadly quiet, enough to stop John in his tracks, "_stay where you are_."

It was difficult to fight his instincts; every muscle in his body screamed to keep walking, to ignore the soft-spoken voice on the end of the phone and walk – no, screw it, get a cab – to 221 Well Place, burst in through the door and punch Mycroft Holmes in the face. And check on Sherlock. The latter was obviously more important despite his growing frustration. Something, however, made him turn and walk back into his room. The door slammed behind him.

"Very good. I can see why he likes you, you follow instructions so well."

John closed his eyes, trying as hard as he could to fight the red pulsing across his vision. "If he'd told you anything substantial about me you'd know that's not quite true."

"My brother is a complicated soul, John," Mycroft said stiffly, ignoring his comment entirely. "He doesn't _have _friends. The closest he has to a friend is that ridiculous idiot Gregory Lestrade, and even he is merely involved to be of use to me."

His head was beginning to hurt. "Of use to you, what do you mean by that?"

"It's not an important detail." Mycroft cleared his throat. "Regardless, I would recommend that you heed these words, John Watson, irrespective of what you think of me: do not, if you value yourself, get involved with Sherlock Holmes. It would only be of detriment to you."

John had to swallow thickly twice before he was able to get the words out without punctuating them with a colourful array of swear-words. "So far nothing could be further from the truth."

"Sentiment will only get the both of you hurt, and believe me when I say that I would go to any lengths to ensure that my brother escapes that burden."

Placing his hand against the wall John pushed against it has hard as he could, determined not to react and happy to take it out on the furniture around him if necessary. "I assume that means you think I'm going to hurt him, hm? You think I don't... value him?"

"Quite the contrary, John," Mycroft's voice was as steady as ever, "you're a depressive who is leaning on Sherlock for emotional support whilst side-lining the rest of your social group. Clearly you value him more than anyone else close at hand."

"Now you're just making it sound like I'm using him -"

"Aren't you? It would be perfectly understandable; after all, he's using you." He did not wait for John to question it. "A boy like him embarking on a friendship with a depressive, an easy way to ensure he always has the upper hand - he knows you'll always be too grateful to let go of him, too sentimental in your thanks to abandon him. He's found everything he needs in you, John – that is, someone who simply cannot possibly function without him."

John did not hold back; his fist went into the wall, all of the nothingness he'd been feeling all day disappearing as the anger flooded through his veins, pain a welcome by-product of his emotion. His voice in comparison was disturbingly calm. "Now, I know I haven't known Sherlock as long as you have. I admit that. Okay? I admit that. But what I do know -" He breathed in and out heavily through his nose for a moment, far too close to losing his grip, " - what I do know is that Sherlock, _my _Sherlock -" John broke off again, head spinning at his own phrasing - "is a self-diagnosed bloody sociopath_, _and if he's even _slightly_ right about that then what you just said to me is complete and utter... bollocks. _Bollocks_. A sociopath wouldn't want someone hanging onto them like a leech. A sociopath wouldn't want someone obsessively hanging on to their every word, movement, whim. Sociopaths want space, have no patience for – as you put it – _sentiment_." He was so close to losing it, too close. "I refuse to believe that Sherlock is using me merely to boost his own ego or whatever it is that you're getting at. He doesn't want that, _I_ don't want that."

"So where, exactly, does that leave us?" He was almost sympathetic. It made John's blood boil. "He doesn't hold onto you for sentiment or for – as _you_ put it – an ego boost. So why _is_ my brother embarking on this odd little fray into friendship with someone so, forgive me but, ordinary?"

John's jaw set, tensed so hard he could barely speak. "Maybe he's sick of his only company being a self-satisfied, smug git."

"I see we're beyond pleasantries."

"You think?" John bit his lip, so hard it almost broke the skin. "I think this conversation is over."

"I would imagine you're right. I'm sure you have plenty of... sleeping to be getting on with."

John hit 'End Call' and threw the phone across the room.

**-X-**

His phone went off at 12:15am, waking him from a restless sleep; he shot up, almost smashing his hand into the wall as he flipped himself over and reached for it. His stomach jolted as the _1 New Message_ and the name directly under it – he unlocked his phone and brought it close to his face, eyes scanning the few words feverishly.

_**William:**_

_Can you talk?_

_SH_

His fingers went to work instantly, a quick and easy response that he didn't even need to think about.

_Yes. Want me to call?_

He waited, unable to take his eyes off of his phone or let it fall from his hands. He tapped his thumb nail impatiently against the screen, laughing dryly at the sheer ridiculousness of his impatience when he had only just sent the message -

_**William:**_

_No. Come and let me in._

_SH_

Ridiculous. He didn't know which accommodation building John was in, let alone the flat number.

_Very funny. I'm calling you now._

_**William:**_

_Marigold Court, flat three._

_Let me in._

John's eyebrows shot up, throwing down his phone and leaping off of the bed, wrenching open his door and not caring as it slammed shut behind him and most likely woke up the other five students in his flat; how many times had he been woken up by loud sex and arguments since he moved in here? It was their turn to suffer. Hopefully not for the same reasons.

He recognised the silhouette behind the frosted glass before he'd even unlocked and yanked open the door.

"Sherlock, what -"

His words trailed off into the darkness. Sherlock's face was impossibly pale, eyes glazed over and hair a complete mess; rather than his usual shirt-and-tight-trousers routine he was wearing a dark grey long-sleeved polo shirt and – my god, were they _jeans_? Faded, well-worn _jeans_?! John forced himself to look away, trying not to feel uncomfortable in the mere presence of Sherlock wearing _Converse_, his eyes travelling back up to Sherlock's odd expression and noting the slight sheen of sweat shining on his skin – wait, why was he sweating? It was only about six degrees Celsius outside and the man wasn't even wearing a coat, just the polo shirt and the jeans, nothing protecting him from the chilly night air. Even with the long sleeves... it was insane. John's eyes narrowed, darting back up to Sherlock's face.

_Something_ wasn't right.

"Sherlock..."

"Can I come in, John?" His voice seemed no different, perhaps a little slower, softer; the man looked so unwell that John stepped aside instantly, gesturing for him to come in, eyes following his movements as concern rested heavily on his shoulders.

"Room five," he called quietly, gently pushing the flat door closed and clicking the lock back into place as silently as he possibly could. He quickly followed the tall shape of his friend, glancing around him as he went to make sure there were no spying eyes – he knew for a fact that were any of his flatmates to see him welcoming a man they'd never seen before into his room at this time of the night... well, the rumours. Greg wouldn't be the only one spreading them.

Confident he was not being watched, John slid into his room and quickly shut the heavy door. He turned.

Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, staring at him.

"Sherlock... are you... all right?"


	14. Chapter 14

**Terribly sleepy, so... ENJOY! :D So hope that you're enjoying it so far, and thank you endlessly for your reviews!**

**Chapter**** Fourteen**

Sherlock looked up at him with hazy eyes, his arms wrapped tightly around himself as if he were cold; the light was still off in his bedroom (as usual) but John was almost certain that the man was shaking. When Sherlock spoke, however, his voice was incredibly soft and calm. "I'm fine, John. A touch of food poisoning, nothing more." John watched as the genius's large hands began to rub up and down his arms, ice-blue eyes starting to dart around the small room. "Your room is very bare."

"Have you been to a doctor?" John stepped over a pair of jeans he'd discarded on the floor earlier, sitting on the desk chair opposite Sherlock and taking in the man's appearance with a concerned frown. "You look terrible."

"I'm surprised you can even see how I look with the lack of light in here; do you always spend your nights by laptop-light?"

John got out of his chair immediately, heading over to the light switch. "Sorry, I don't tend to put the lights on -"

"No," Sherlock interjected quickly, leaning back as if trying to get further away from the switch, "leave it off. I would... prefer it to be dark."

Bringing his hand slowly down from the little plastic square, John looked at him for a moment. His mind started to race over possibilities, narrowing down Sherlock's obvious symptoms and pulling a diagnosis from the air, disregarding it and starting over – food poisoning, gastroenteritis, anemia, flu, stress -

"Stop that," Sherlock interrupted his thought process, a tiny smile playing on his lips. "I don't need you to diagnose me, _Dr. Watson. _It's food poisoning. I'll be fine in no time."

John slowly made his way back over to his friend, perching on the edge of the desk chair and looking at him closely. "_Have_ you been to a doctor?"

"I assure you, Mycroft is more than capable of diagnosing me; he's a better physician than any nearby, believe me."

"Mycroft," John muttered, rolling his eyes. "I had the pleasure of speaking to him today."

Sherlock's tiny smile vanished, eyes focusing blankly on the sink in the corner.. "Yes, I overheard quite clearly. It seems that you two didn't quite get on."

"Not sure there's a single person on this earth who could honestly say that they _get on_ with Mycroft Holmes," said John gruffly, leaning back on the chair and folding his arms. "I can't say I've ever had the misfortune to speak to a more unpleasant human being."

Sherlock nodded slowly, fingers wrapping themselves over his upper arms and gripping himself tightly. John did not miss it. "He's possibly even more antisocial than I am."

"Impossible," John joked lightly, giving his friend a little smile. "I have to admit, though, I _do_ have some questions for you when you're feeling a little better -"

"Anything I told him was not without a fight." Sherlock could not meet John's eyes, constantly shifting his gaze around the room. "I was... unwell at the time. He has ways of knowing who I'm talking to and isn't afraid to push me for answers when I'm perhaps more vulnerable to coercion than usual."

There was nothing about that explanation that John liked. "The more I hear about your brother the more inclined I am to hate him, Sherlock."

"I know," Sherlock said quietly. "But if you can help it, please try not to."

Surprise flitted across John's gentle expression, completely shocked by Sherlock's request. Hadn't Sherlock insulted his brother to kingdom come just a week ago? "I would have thought -"

"Forget about Mycroft," Sherlock cut across him, tone suddenly testy. His hands gripped his arms tighter, tips of his fingers going white. "He is entirely unimportant. If and when I wish to discuss him I will bring it up in conversation, but until then I would very much prefer if you could just let it go."

John bit back his irritation and forced himself to nod, knowing this wasn't the time or the place though determined that one day it would be and one day Sherlock would have to respond to his many questions. "All right. We'll move on."

"Thank you." Sherlock's low voice was barely a murmur. "I'm sorry to be a pain, John, but do you think I could have a glass of water? Suddenly I feel a little..."

"Say no more," John said confidently, pushing himself back up off of the chair and stepping over the jeans once more to get to the sink. "You're in capable hands here, I'm practically a doctor."

"Mm," Sherlock hummed from behind him, the tiniest hint of amusement seeping through, "I'll have to take your word for it."

Running the water for a few seconds first to make sure it was cold enough, John rinsed out the glass he usually used at night and filled it halfway, holding it carefully as he made his way back to his pale friend. "Here." He handed it over, Sherlock's fingers wrapping around his momentarily as he took it; he watched as the young man's eyelids closed momentarily, the strangest look passing over his face almost as if he were savouring the sensation – yes, something clearly wasn't right with him if that was his reaction to the touch of another person. For the sake of Sherlock's comfort he allowed the physical contact without flinching, holding his hand still upon the glass and underneath the clammy skin of his friend and waited until he felt the pressure of a grip.

Slowly Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips, eyes still closed as he took a small sip. "Thank you."

John nodded, settling back down on the chair. "No problem. Just make sure you don't drink it too fast, all right? If it _is_ food poisoning -"

"It is."

" - then you don't want to overload your stomach too quickly. Don't want an explosion from either end..." John watched as another tiny smile found its way onto Sherlock's lips, though the effort behind it was painfully obvious. Whatever was wrong with him – and John was almost certain it wasn't food poisoning – it was making him feel absolutely terrible. "Sherlock..."

"Please, John." Sherlock's tone was no longer soft; it suddenly had an edge, an irritability that somehow stretched beyond what it should have been. "I appreciate that you are just... being... a _friend_... but I would be very much obliged if you were to simply let it go. I know exactly what you're thinking and I'm sure it's out of the goodness of your heart just as it is with Mycroft, not that I'm certain he even _has_ one -"

"Wait a second," John interrupted, frowning, "I don't think comparing me to Mycroft is exactly _accurate_, do you?"

"Just stop questioning me, all right?" Quiet again, the edge subtle. "I can barely focus on keeping my body upright let alone have to deal with you constantly doubting and questioning me... my head _aches..._"

"All right." John fought to keep his voice as quiet as Sherlock's. "All right. Your head hurts. Do you have a fever?" He leaned forward, moving his hand until it was hovering over Sherlock's sweat-covered forehead, not quite touching him. "Do you mind if I...?"

"Do whatever," Sherlock replied curtly, his tone still low, body still tense. "If it'll stop you from staring at me like I'm a dying puppy."

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling and doing nothing to hide it from Sherlock's unseeing eyes, John gently pressed his palm to his friend's forehead – it was cool, clammy to the touch certainly but no sign of a fever. "Well... you don't have a fever."

"_I_ could have told you that."

Taking his hand back, John sighed. "I wish you'd stop lying to me about the food poisoning, though, I just want to help -"

John could not miss the way Sherlock's entire body began to shake at his words, hand dangerously unsteady on the glass – he reached forward to take it before there was an accident of sorts, fingers outstretched and just brushing the glass before Sherlock's left hand shot out without warning and whacked it out of the way, taking no care to be gentle. Their flesh connected with a sharp 'slap', John's eyes widening first in surprise and then instinctual anger, Sherlock's snapping open and fixing in all their intensity on his friend's face – the expression on his face was shockingly raw, his limbs into trembling waves.

John stood rapidly, fists clenching as his heart began to thump hard beneath his chest. "I was just trying to _help_ you, Sherlock, there was absolutely no need for you to do that – you can take that look off of your face for..." His voice trailed off as Sherlock too forced himself into a standing position, taller, far more threatening simply in height than John could ever be. "All right, calm down - sit back down -"

"I can handle myself," Sherlock practically growled, his grip on the glass turning his knuckles white, "I don't need you to pity me, John Watson."

The irrationality was so startling that for a few seconds John could do nothing but stare. "Sherlock, what the _hell_...?"

"Stop looking at me like I'm out of control, I am _perfectly_ in control of myself -"

"Yeah, you're doing a great job of convincing me," John said weakly, stepping back and almost falling over the chair. "Sherlock, I know you're feeling like... well, like shit, but you need to sit back down and _think_ about this for a moment."

Sherlock leaned over, slamming the glass on the bedside table with a loud SMACK and instantly turning back to his friend with, to John's surprise, fists quite as clenched as his own. "How can I think? How can I think when my mind is full of... of _nonsense_, of nothing, of thoughts I can't even grasp hold of whilst my body is so needlessly rejecting itself?" His hands reached up, grabbing his own arms again so tightly that John could see the intents on his skin where the fingertips were digging in. "I thought it would all right to come here, that you would somehow _help_ me, but of course you can't help me, an utterly ridiculous notion that someone like you could help someone like me -"

His words were like blows. John knew, his head telling him quite loudly, that Sherlock was clearly not in his right mind and was beyond irrational at that moment, but the fact that he was essentially saying the things that John himself had been considering these last few days – that one day Sherlock would wake up and realise that John was, as Mycroft had said so correctly, too ordinary to waste his time on – was just a little too close to home for comfort.

"Mycroft was clearly right, as he always bloody is; we're unsuitable for each other – two emotionally unstable young adults leaning on each other when neither of us have any real experience of..." Sherlock trailed off, eyes suddenly flicking up to John's. He did not continue, changing his tack as if he had not been speaking at all. "I cannot have you pitying me, John. It is absolutely unnecessary, _utterly_ ridiculous."

It took a few moments – too long underneath a silence so full of tension – for John to find his voice, still reeling from Sherlock's tirade to be able to properly articulate himself. "I don't... that came out of nowhere, I wasn't pitying you -"

"Your eyes are full of it," Sherlock said through gritted teeth, eyes still blazing but body beginning to wilt in exhaustion, "and it makes me feel sick. It makes me feel _weak_."

Without meaning to, John found himself collapsing into the chair behind him – it had all escalated so quickly he could barely catch his breath. "Fucking hell, Sherlock. Sit down."

"I -"

"_Sit down or I'm going to call your brother and tell him exactly where you are._"

Silence. John waited with wavering patience until Sherlock slowly sat.

"If you let yourself get riled up like that it's going to take you twice as long to get better, all right?" It was difficult to keep his voice steady, still angrily bewildered by how quickly things had become... heated, with no reason to explain other than Sherlock's foray into irrationality – again, no explanation for that either. "Tell me why you came here when clearly you're in no fit state to see _anyone_."

Sherlock's eyes were closed once more, body slack as he sat unmoving opposite his friend. "I told you why."

"No, what you did was went off on one and had quite a bit of fun throwing insults around whilst essentially losing your shit like a child." John's jaw was tight, the words a struggle. He was determined to be patient, at least until Sherlock wasn't so 'unwell'. "A clear explanation with as few insults as possible would be... helpful."

Sherlock opened his eyes very slightly, eyes hidden beneath long eyelashes. "If you'll cast your mind back -"

"I want _you_ to tell me _now_."

Sighing, Sherlock moved his head forward gradually until it came to rest on his hands; to John it was a sign of defeat, a sign of giving up. He felt no victory, though, as the man spoke in low, dragging tones. "I thought... _stupidly -_"

"Sherlock."

"Fine, _fine_, have it your way..." Sherlock groaned into his hands, body still clearly tense. "I thought that you perhaps be able to... _help_ me. Distract me."

John watched his friend closely, eyes narrowed. "Distract you from what? Help you with what?"

"My head, John... it aches..."

"I know, keep drinking your water."

"No," Sherlock dissented, head lifting and eyes swivelling until they focused, unseeing, on John's chin. "My head _aches_. I can't concentrate, can't focus, can't think of anything beyond how heavy it feels, how sluggish my body is whilst trying to fight off the constant, pulsing desperation for..." He broke off, eyes darting up momentarily to John's and back down to his chin. "I have want of something, John, something which apparently I cannot have and the sheer lack of it is tearing my body apart and turning me into an irrational, angry, shaking _wreck _of a man."

"Christ," John laughed weakly, "please tell me you're not talking about _someone_ as opposed to _something_?"

A look of pure Sherlockian disgust crossed the genius's pale face, allowing his eyes to meet John's so that the man opposite him could see just how ridiculous he found his question. "Don't be absurd, John. I can only take so much stupid from you at one time."

It was so incessantly _Sherlock_ that, rather than rolling his eyes or taking offence to what was clearly _not_ a compliment, John found himself with a grin twitching at the edge of his lips and a spark of relief just making a brief appearance in his chest. _Yep,_ he thought to himself wryly, _this is one hell of an unhealthy friendship._ "Sorry, should've realised. So, uh... what's this thing you want so badly, if it's not a person...?"

Sherlock spoke as if John hadn't spoken. "So I came to you in the hope of a distraction, something to take my mind off of... it. Of course, I realise now that I was asking too much of you. You are, after all, so very -"

"Ordinary." John's voice was undeniably bitter, the sound of it making even himself intensely uncomfortable; the acute, keen gaze he found himself locked in as Sherlock's eyes shifted to his only made it more so.

"I was going to say _human._"

"Same thing."

The two young men stared at one other within the confines of the dark room, the dim light of the laptop reflecting in their eyes and making each other's faces so discouragingly difficult to read, to analyse; John struggled more than Sherlock to read people at the best of times but now, in the lacklustre light and with so much confusion and misunderstanding between them, he could not read a damned thing on the face of his clearly suffering friend. Sherlock's mind, as disappointing to his master as it apparently was right now, was blatantly whirring away and attempting to read John just as much as he was trying to read Sherlock; John could see it in the ice-blue eyes currently turned his way, the way in which they were flitting from both of John's eyes to his hands to his feet and back up to check his eyes again... it was exhausting simply to watch it, and John found himself not for the first time in awe of this man who called himself his friend.

It was impossible. Even without his depression John was too ordinary for a man like Sherlock Holmes.

When Sherlock did finally break the silence his voice was exasperated, impossibly quiet. "Must we always have a moment in every social occasion during which one of us doubts their place in the other's life?"

"I didn't say that I _was_ doubting it, I just meant -"

"I know what you meant and you're being ridiculous."

They stared at each other again. John waited a few beats before remembering he had been trying to get an explanation. "So what is it, Sherlock? This thing you want? Is it why you're feeling so... well..." He gestured towards his friend, frowning. "You know. This."

"Irrational. Nauseated. Shaky. Weak. Anxious."

John's brain began to tick. "Y...es..."

"I have food poisoning, John," Sherlock said evenly, even as a huge tremble seemed to shake him from shoulders to feet in one giant wave. "Remember?"

John's eyes were solemn as they flickered over Sherlock's face, searching. "No, no... you want something, you're in need of something -"

"To be well again is what I want," Sherlock said with a tiny smile, folding his arms and holding his body still as best as he could, the edge back to his voice. "Nothing more than that."

Shaking his head, John found himself leaning forward until he was resting his arms on his knees, raking his intent gaze over his friend as his mind began to turn, turn, turn. "No one describes the pains of wanting something as much as you clearly do without there being more to it than just the desire to be well again, Sherlock. You're trying to tell me something but you won't tell me outright. Why?"

For the first time since John had met Sherlock Holmes, uncertainty crossed the taller man's face. "I was just rambling, John, I'm not in my right mind. I'm ill."

"Yes, you are," John murmured, a distinctly horrible realisation starting to edge its way into his head. "Sherlock... have you take-"

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

_Riiiiiiiiiing!_

Slowly Sherlock tore his eyes from John's and fell to the pocket of his jeans. His long fingers slowly wriggled their way into the tight material to pull the plastic device from its trappings, bringing it up to his face and glaring at it in a way that instantly gave away the caller.

"Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded, expression blank. "Greg must have gone to check on me and found me missing."

His phone stopped ringing; John's began. Disbelief crossing his face, John looked down at the caller ID and let out a humourless laugh. "07995346-"

"I didn't give him your number."

"I didn't think you had."

The two of them looked at each other for a moment, John's unspoken question from before floating between them; Mycroft's call rang out, silence flooding the dark room, yet neither of them seemed to be able to find the motivation to speak again.

**-X-**

Greg had opened the door and was striding out of the house the minute Mycroft's car pulled up, hands raised. "I'm sorry Mycroft, I went in at eleven and he was sleeping, went in ten minutes ago and he -"

"There's no need for an explanation, Gregory," Mycroft said, face impassive as he slammed his door shut and walked up to where the younger man stood, "I understand that you cannot be watching him at all times. I assume he didn't leave a note?"

"Yeah right," Greg snorted, pulling out his phone. "Sent him a text but no answer. D'you think he went to his dealer?"

Mycroft pulled out his phone and selected his younger brother's number once more, pressing 'Call' and not bothering to bring it to his ear as it rang; seven rings later and it went to voicemail. "Oh, I doubt it very much. Sherlock may indeed ardently want his fix, but he knows I would have already dealt with his source. He's not a fool."

Greg stared at Mycroft, open-mouthed. "So where d'you think he's gone? Want me to get some of my mates here, look around town?"

A tight smile cracked on Mycroft's lips. "I think that would lead to more harm than help, don't you? If he's looking for it elsewhere he'll have his ears to the ground, contacts to warn him of people asking after him. He's far too... _resourceful _to get caught by just anybody."

Sighing, Greg turned around on the spot and shrugged dramatically. "Well what then? It's not like he has friends to go to!" He froze, eyes wide as he stared at nothing in particular. "Well, unless -"

"My thoughts precisely," Mycroft murmured, scrolling through his phone and finding John Watson's number, stored there a week ago. "Let's go to his next likely addiction, shall we?"


	15. Chapter 15

**HOOOOOORAY, ANOTHER CHAPTER! :D Enjoy! ^_^**

**Chapter Fifteen**

Half an hour later, John found himself watching Sherlock's sleeping form.

He had not asked Sherlock the question lingering on the tip of his tongue – in the end he had not wanted to, though whether it was to spare Sherlock the feelings that would accompany such a confession or to save himself from having to hear the answer he did not know. They had simply sat in the quiet, occasionally meeting one another's gaze as they waited for the inevitable cavalry to arrive – preserving the quiet for as long as possible. Both of them knew that, after this, things would not be as simple (as if they were simple before) and that something would change; neither of them knew what or how and it was an unspoken agreement not to discuss it, but either way, the silence was welcome.

Eventually Sherlock had started to rock from side to side, his body barely holding himself up; his eyes fluttered closed, his hands stopped gripping his arms quite so tight.

"Sherlock," John said softly, watching as the hazy blue eyes slowly opened and found his, "why don't you lie down?"

"No," Sherlock murmured back, shaking his head languidly back and forth. "No, I... shouldn't sleep. I'll have to be ready for when Mycroft gets here."

"I'll wake you up when he gets here," John reassured him, gesturing towards his pillow. "Go on and lie down, you look about ready to pass out. Get some rest."

Sherlock had forced himself to focus on John for a moment, almost as if he was trying to read his friend but failing miserably in the fog of whatever was working its way out of his system. "You'll wake me up?"

"I promise. As soon as he calls me to let me know he's here, I'll wake you up."

Without further question, Sherlock had simply let his body fall to the side, eyes closing instantly; it didn't look particularly comfortable but John wasn't going to attempt to make him move now, not after so quickly winning a battle. As John stood to quietly cross the room to get a blanket from his wardrobe, Sherlock's sleep-heavy voice floated across the space between them. "I warn you, I'm horrible when I first wake up."

A grin flitted across John's face, turning for a moment to look down at his half-unconscious friend. "No change there, then."

Now, fifteen minutes later, watching Sherlock sleep was the only thing John felt capable of doing.

The man had started his slumber curled up, arms brought into his chest and knees bent – not altogether dissimilar to how John now slept; it was a protective stance, a way of shielding himself from anything that was to come his way. It was almost uncomfortable to see his friend doing the very same thing and introduced a vulnerability in Sherlock that John had not seen before now. Eventually, however, his body had uncurled and opened out, rolling over onto his back and throwing an arm out to the side so that it dangled over the carpet like a branch from a tree, head still lowered so that his chin just came short of brushing his shoulder; he breathed long, deep breaths, occasionally so slow and deep that John could not stop his body from leaning forward slightly, a frown creasing his forehead as he waited for Sherlock's breathing to even out properly again.

He'd never felt like this before, really. John had _had _friends of course, close friends – Mike being his best friend for years now – but over the past two weeks he had found himself slowly pushing aside the haze of depression purposefully to fit in a piece of something that was not himself, a piece that was a little jagged and didn't seem at first likely to fit in the gap he had managed to carve out, but now… now it was as if it had always been there. He had felt things in the last two weeks that he had not felt with Mike or any of his other friends regardless of what they were doing, irrespective of how much alcohol they'd consumed or how much fun they'd managed to compile in one evening.

He recalled the rush of the week previous upon hearing Sherlock's voice fill his empty bedroom from his laptop, deep and mocking; he remembered vividly the way his stomach had tightened and body frozen at the mere sound of the voice in person, tension exploding within himself as he'd turned around and met the intense gaze of the man who was supposed to have been nothing more than an academic tutor; the walk they'd taken around campus, talking of the party and medicine and nothing even remotely personal; dinner at the cosy Italian restaurant with wine and water and a clever, irritating, changeable childlike version of Sherlock; the heat of adrenaline pumping through John's body as he climbed through a window; the feel of a rough coat against his cheek and surprisingly strong hands on his arms as Sherlock dragged him into hiding to avoid being caught by a security guard; the look of fierce jubilance on Sherlock's face as he'd slipped out of a headlock and grabbed John's wrist, yanking him towards the open window and throwing himself out of it and John practically falling through it; the mad dash across the park with laughter and swearing and stumbling until finally they'd stood gasping for breath whilst overlooking Canary Wharf… and the conversation that had followed, the foundations for their friendship hardening into stone and mortar.

Staring down at the man he'd known for barely two weeks, John found himself sighing, fingers playing idly with the large pocket of his hoodie. Something had been irrevocably changed in his life, he knew, but _exactly_ what… well, he had no idea.

There was a soft knock at the door.

"Hmmwhassat?" Sherlock's voice mumbled sleepily through the darkness, still clearly at least half-unconscious; John looked at him for one moment more before he quietly made his way over to his bedroom door, sliding back the lock and pulling it open, the light from the hallway spilling in painfully bright – he squinted out at the two currently indiscernible shapes and forced his eyes to adjust.

"I believe you have something of mine."

Mycroft Holmes was tall, maybe even slightly taller than his younger brother. His misty-blue eyes and dark brown hair were oddly flat in John's eyes, lacking most if not all of the sparkle and dynamical energy of Sherlock's own features… in fact, they looked absolutely _nothing_ alike. The closest that John could find to align the older Holmes brother with the younger was the arrogant tilt of his chin and the steely determination of his stare which, now, was focused wholly on John himself.

He met the look head-on, determined not to be stared down by this man who he still kind-of-definitely wanted to punch in the face. "Why don't we start with hello and work our way around to who belongs to whom, hm?"

Greg Lestrade – ah, their living arrangement was beginning to make some sense – lingered behind Mycroft awkwardly, hands in his pockets as he shrugged helplessly towards John with a 'what can I do?' look that John very much understood; if Greg was under the thumb of _this_ Holmes brother, he more than understood why he remained two steps behind, silent. John grimaced at him just as Mycroft took a step forward.

"There is a time and a place for this conversation, John, and it is _not_ now." The man refrained from touching John, simply standing just a little too close and looking down at him over his rather expansive nose. "My brother is unwell and he should be at home where he can be properly… looked after."

"And by that I assume you mean _watched_," John said flatly, folding his arms and shifting to block the view into his room. "He's actually sleeping right now, so maybe you'd like to come back in the morning to pick him up. Or, y'know, I could just walk him home. The fresh air would probably do him a world of good."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed slightly as he refined the information given, his gaze flickering momentarily in the direction of the bed and back down to John; his lips twisted into an odd half-smile. "Sleeping! I see. Do you and my brother often spend the night in each other's beds?"

John tilted his chin up, his attitude the very reflection of the man currently dozing in his bedroom. "I'd say that's none of your business, actually."

"How interesting," Mycroft murmured to himself, eyes back to searching in the darkness behind John for his brother. "Well, as much as I appreciate your, ah, _hospitality_ to my brother, it perhaps would be more prudent if I were to take him home with myself and Gregory now." John did not miss the eye-roll and silently mouthed 'GREG' from the young man standing behind Mycroft; a smile slipped on his lips, something that Mycroft clearly took to be directed at him as any hint of friendliness slipped away. "Let me be clear: I am taking Sherlock with me now and I would strongly advise that you do not impede my path."

John's arms fell to his sides, standing as straight as he possibly could. "I'm sorry, is that a threat?"

Mycroft's lips tugged into a humourless smile. "Oh, let's not go down this path, John. There's no need for us to be unpleasant to one another."

"Bit late for that."

As Mycroft opened his mouth to retort with what would have surely been yet another softly-spoken threat, a drowsy voice called out from the darkness beyond them.

"John? Who are you talking to?"

He turned instinctively, realising too late that this left enough room for a person to slip by him – he cursed none too quietly as Mycroft breezed past him, his perfectly laundered suit, shining shoes and upper-class air in embarrassingly stark contrast to the bare, magnolia mess of his bedroom. He saw Sherlock's eyes open to half their usual size as Mycroft strode into the room (Greg awkwardly wandering to the threshold behind him) with what John assumed to be his usual show of authority, the tall thirty-something year old man standing over the bed and looking over his younger brother with an odd look on his face.

Unsurprisingly, his tone was brisk.

"Come now, Sherlock – time to go home."

Sherlock stared up at his brother from his sprawled out position on John's bed, his eyes like slits. "I was sleeping before you got here. _Thanks_ for that."

"Well, how reassuring to know that even if you can't sleep in your _own_ bed you can manage perfectly well in John's." The twisted grimace was back; it looked almost as if his brain had forgotten quite _how_ to smile, his lips half-committed to it but the rest of his face remained impassive to the idea. "Regardless, you're awake now! We can get you home and you can resume your rest in your own bed."

Sherlock's gaze flashed to John. "I'm not finished here, Mycroft."

John's eyes widened, mind instantly connecting with the obvious implication; at the tiniest of winks from Sherlock, however, he kept his mouth shut and simply waited for a response.

Greg's mouth fell open.

"Enough," Mycroft said sharply, looking from John to Sherlock with a frown so deep it looked as it would leave a permanent mark on his forehead. "This isn't a game, Sherlock, and you shouldn't be here. Your… recovery…" He quickly glanced at John again. "Your recovery process isn't over yet. You can resume your _activities_ once you're back to your usual form."

Pushing himself up onto an elbow, Sherlock looked to John once more; his face was still deathly pale and John could see from the slight tremble in the arm supporting him that he was not at all feeling back to his 'usual form', yet the tiny smile that flickered on the man's lips was 100% Sherlock and was clearly intended to make John fully aware that his 'game' was not yet over. "John's very capable, _brother mine_… he has… hmm… _healing hands_."

John fought every instinct in his body to keep quiet – seeing Greg's astounded gaze flit between the two of them made this exceptionally difficult, knowing that not only was Sherlock's 'game' having an effect on Mycroft but also Sherlock's housemate. He bound himself to the spot, however, keeping his jaw firmly locked as he waited for Sherlock to finish torturing his brother.

Mycroft seemed to sense his reticence instantly. "John, would you kindly tell my brother to stop this ridiculous display? This is not the place for him at this moment in time, surely you can see that?"

Oh, god. He looked to Sherlock in panic, eyes wide, but the only response he got was a tiny nod of confidence – his friend's eyes, tired as they were, clearly encouraged him to continue his 'game'. John breathed in deeply before turning himself back to Mycroft, forcing his shoulders into what he hoped was a casual shrug. "Sorry, Mycroft. You, uh… interrupted us at a bad time."

"Oh, for goodness sake," Mycroft snapped, throwing his head back in pure frustration. "Must I deal with this now? Can neither of you see that I am requesting this change of venue purely out of necessity? Sherlock, you simply cannot stay here. I'm well aware that John probably hasn't the _slightest_ idea of why you came here tonight and if you really must insist on making this difficult I'll be forced to -"

"I know why he's here," John interrupted, tone every bit as sharp as Mycroft's; he watched as Mycroft's blue eyes shot through him, attempting his brother's little x-ray trick and… yes, there it was. Realisation that John was, in fact, telling the truth. "And I _can_ take care of him if this is where he wants to be, I'm more than capable. I'm not going to force him to leave just because you want him to, even if it _is_ in his best interests. I don't know if you know your brother at all, Mycroft, but he's not the easiest man in the world to say no to."

Sherlock's gaze darted between the two of them, his body shaking from the effort of holding himself up but too involved in their conversation to change it. John was unsure, but he could have sworn that he saw the tiniest hint of first disbelief and then, unimaginably, fear flit like a wayward bird across his face. He saw Sherlock's periwinkle eyes move slowly up to look deeply into John's own honest, open gaze and saw, as clearly as his own reflection, the genius's realisation much like his brother's that John had every idea of what was really going on.

His eyes closed momentarily.

Mycroft sighed, seeing this exchange and raising his hands in defeat. "I see that I'm powerless against this, then; so, John - " he eyed the young man closely, disappointment radiating from the stare, " – you are truly inclined to ignore my warning from earlier today, I take it? Even now?"

John turned, walking over to the edge of the bed where Sherlock still half-lay with his eyes closed, looking down at his friend and waiting for his presence to be acknowledged; slowly Sherlock allowed his eyes to open once more, though he did not raise his gaze to meet John's and simply stared at Mycroft's trouser-leg. Hesitating, every former instinct he had ever felt to hold back being pushed aside for this single moment of absolute importance, John moved his hand until it rested gently on Sherlock's shoulder and then turned back once more to face Mycroft.

"Now more than ever."

**-X-**

"_You really shouldn't let him get too carried away, Sherlock," Mycroft called up the stairs after him, his tone speaking of John the way he had once spoken of Redbeard all those years ago, "you know he's only going to end up getting hurt. You _both_ are."_

_Having had plenty of years practice in feigning ignorance of his older brother's existence, Sherlock forced his feet to drag him all the way into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him with the slams of every adolescent fit of rage echoing in his ears as he collapsed in utter exhaustion on the bed he had left near on two hours ago. He had no need to glance around to see that his drawers had been emptied, mattress been inspected, all remnants of his addiction removed – Mycroft had even threatened to confiscate his phone, though the utter absurdity and uselessness of the task would have just been a complete waste of the older brother's time; Sherlock was far from an idiot. He would find ways to contact John just as he had found ways to find the heroin._

_But then, which addiction would Mycroft be fighting against now? Which did he think Sherlock was more likely to succumb to?_

_He should have stayed with John._

_Laying back on his perfectly made bed and staring up at the ceiling in above him, his mind still prancing a merry dance of impossibilities and improbabilities against the fog that still wrapped itself around his every thought, Sherlock thought of John. _

_Why had he not turned away when he had every opportunity to?_

_Still, he wouldn't sleep tonight. He would have all night to figure it out._

**-X-**

Laying back on his messily unmade bed and staring up at the ceiling above him, his mind threatening to submerge itself into the usual blankness and smog, John thought of Sherlock.

Why did he let him leave with Mycroft?

Still, he had an entire night's sleep to toss and turn to. Maybe his dreams would help him figure it out.


	16. Chapter 16

**LOVE YOU GUYS! Sorry it's been so long for an update - well, a week - but had lots going on. Regardless, here you are - I hope so much that you enjoy it!**

**PS: The love WILL come eventually. I promise. I just think they deserve some real foundations first, y'know?**

**Chapter Sixteen**

After Sherlock had pushed himself wordlessly from John's bed and literally left the room without saying a word, Mycroft curtly nodding to John in farewell and Greg simply shrugging again in bewilderment, John had found himself standing in the middle of his room without a single idea of what the heck he was supposed to do next.

All in all, John was a calm, centred young adult. Yes, he was depressed – though these last two weeks had made it so up-and-down that he wasn't really sure what was going on with that part of his life – but generally he was very much in control of his emotions, somewhat open-minded to other people and by and large a non-judgemental person. He had managed to light the flame of his and Sherlock's friendship despite the genius being frustrating, arrogant and continuously prone to thoughtlessness; he'd broken into a building with the man just to please him, after all. Not that John _hadn't_ got something out of it, of course – he couldn't easily forget the rush, the exhilaration, and he owed that admittedly exciting, distracting night to Sherlock. So, yes. John was open-minded enough to break the law for his friend.

Or, more likely, crazy enough.

Now, however, there was more than just John's depression and Sherlock's unpredictability to deal with, and it was such a _big_ thing that John couldn't even sleep on it to better prepare himself for the next morning. He'd stayed awake for hours just staring at the ceiling, staring at his phone screen, staring at the laptop, his mind darting between increasingly confusing thoughts until finally he'd sat up, shoved his feet into the trainers cast untidily next to his bed and gave up trying to think of anything whilst cooped up in a room that might as well have been a prison cell.

He walked further than he meant to; the cold, fresh air was so wonderfully soothing against his skin, the antidote to the sluggish processes of his mind. He kept his legs moving, hands shoved deep into his pockets and head kept down so as to keep the chilly breeze from stinging his eyes, not really concentrating on where he was going but not caring enough to map out a route for himself. It wasn't like there were many people around to distract or bother him and he had nowhere he had to be the next day, so the fact that it was – he glanced at his watch – 2:30am made no difference to him. By the time he finally stopped walking, slightly breathless, he found himself overlooking the lights of Canary Wharf and in exactly the same place he'd been just a few days ago with the young man who was now irrevocably etched in his mind.

The truth was, he couldn't _not_ think about Sherlock.

So, his new friend had a drug addiction. He felt as if he should be surprised, shocked even, yet he was now so used to not allowing himself to be surprised by anything that Sherlock did that it just seemed... fitting? It made no sense to see it that way - who would guess that anyone as incredibly intelligent and dedicated to his work as Sherlock Holmes would have an addiction to a possibly illegal substance? But it was true, obvious even, that there was still much he didn't know about the genius who had turned his life upside down, and despite knowing it was wrong of him to think this way, regardless of how utterly inappropriate it was to feel the way he did when the man was clearly struggling... somehow it made John even more... _involved_. It made him want to crack the man open from top to bottom and see every little dark detail and know every tiny blemish that marked him.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that their relationship was not what most people would consider healthy.

He pulled out his phone without even thinking about it, too edgy and too impatient to stop himself, thumbs hammering out a message and sending it in less than a minute:

_I don't know why you took whatever you've taken or how you reached a point where it seemed like the right thing to do, but I'm going to help you. Don't ask me why. I couldn't tell you even if I knew. Your arsehole of a brother won't stop me, either._

In hindsight, he shouldn't have been surprised:

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes:**_

_Your loyalty to my brother is admirable, if not possibly misplaced. I think you and I need to have a conversation and I think it should be now, don't you?_

_M. Holmes_

* * *

John grimaced, texting back quickly.

_Maybe that's a good idea. Where should I meet you?_

Less than a minute later:

* * *

_**Mycroft Holmes:**_

_I assume I don't need to provide you with his address._

_M. Holmes_

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, John rapped his knuckles lightly on the door of 221 Well Place and waited.

The door opened, Greg's tired face peering round the corner.

"John, mate." He opened the door wide, stepping back to allow him the space to walk through. "Sherlock's sleeping, don't think he's really up for visitors -"

"Not to worry, Gregory, he's not here for Sherlock. Or perhaps he is," Mycroft said, coming out of the living room and giving John a small smile, "but rather we need to sit down and have a little talk first." He gestured into the room he'd just left, standing so straight and tall that John had a fierce desire to look behind the man to see if there was a stick shoved up a certain orifice. "Shall we? You too, Gregory."

"Greg," Greg muttered, but still he shut the door after John and followed the two of them into the warm, cosy living room and sat himself down on one of the old, worn- looking leather sofas. Mycroft sat in a large, mismatched leather armchair and waited for John to settle next to Greg, watching as John awkwardly shifted and eventually stilled.

"So. Here we are."

John nodded stiffly. "What did you want to say to me?"

"Skipping the pleasantries again. Hm. No matter," Mycroft said with another small, unreadable smile, settling himself back and crossing his legs gracefully, "I merely wanted to see how you were doing after our little situation this evening."

"I assume you're referring to your brother coming to me whilst coming down from whatever drug he's been taking?" John didn't even blink, so calm he felt. "I feel fine. Fantastic."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Quite. Though you are wrong about that, he was already, ah, _down_ from his illegal high. He's been going 'cold turkey' for the last two days, as it happens."

"Right. And, if it's all right for me to ask, what sort of _illegal high_ did he take?"

Greg shifted uncomfortably beside him; Mycroft simply gazed at John without a flicker of emotion as he replied, completely matter-of-fact: "Heroin."

John blinked. He'd been thinking cocaine, maybe something vaguely hallucinogenic – not something as rapidly life-destroying as _heroin_. "I..." He cleared his throat, frowning. "Are you sure?"

"I can bring him down here and show you his arms if you'd like," Mycroft said breezily, continuing to stare at him in a way that made John feel remarkably exposed. "Yes, John, my brother has a taste for opiates. Absolutely ghastly when he needs to take any form of pain medication, he's built up such a resistance to them."

John's mouth fell open, hardly believing what he was hearing. "I'm sorry, did you really just refer to his heroin addiction and the _ghastliness_ of not being able to take paracetamol?" He turned and glanced at Greg; even he looked completely nonplussed about the whole thing. "Am I missing something?"

"No," Mycroft said, tone still conversational. "Mr. Lestrade is well-versed in Sherlock's habits. The Lestrade's are friends of the family, Gregory here grew up with us. He's how we realised that Sherlock wasn't, in fact, an idiot."

None of this made sense. "You... right, so... Greg, you're Sherlock's... friend?"

"Well..." Greg hesitated, looking briefly at Mycroft. "He doesn't really have friends, does he? I mean, you and he are..." He broke off, suddenly looking intensely uncomfortable. "Well, until now he never really had anyone he could call a friend, exactly."

"Nonsense, Gregory, I'm sure Sherlock considers you the very best of chums," Mycroft said, clearly amused at the idea. "Or at the very least he puts up with you and doesn't complain about it too often. I'd say that's friendship, or the closest approximation of it – well, as you say. Until John."

A piece of information he had forgotten suddenly came trickling back into his head – Sherlock at Greg's party, wryly informing Greg that as he lived rent-free in their home that he would definitely have to pay him back every single penny for the alcohol he had just fetched. John slowly nodded to himself. "Right, so that's why." He turned to Greg. "You get to live here rent free and in exchange you keep an eye on Sherlock?"

Greg looked at Mycroft again before looking back at John with a small nod; there was an odd look in his eyes, something very close to guilt. "I mean, it's not that I don't care or that I wouldn't do it anyway. Like Mycroft said, we've known each other since we were kids. Even if I'm not exactly a friend, that's only because Sherlock just doesn't interact with people like anyone else – well, until -"

"Yes, me, I know," John said impatiently. He didn't miss the ghost of a smile on Mycroft's face. "But obviously it's not a fool-proof system. He managed to do it this time – take the drugs, I mean."

The guilt in Greg's eyes intensified. "I didn't see any of the usual warning signs." He turned to John properly. "He gets quiet, quieter than usual, spends a lot of time in his room. He leaves the room whenever I walk in. He's edgy, not vocally but physically, pacing a lot and muttering to himself. There have always been signs in the past, I've always been able to get word to Mycroft before something happens but this time there _were_ no warning signs. I came home early after my lecturer didn't turn up one day and his bedroom door was closed – it's _never_ closed unless he's sleeping," he stressed, fingers splayed out as he made his point, "and I guess my instincts just kicked in. I opened the door and he was just sitting against the wall, all the stuff around him and he was just staring in front of him. At nothing." Greg turned away again, looking at Mycroft. "I swear, there were no warning signs this time. If there had been -"

"Clearly something about this time was different," Mycroft interrupted, giving Greg an almost reassuring nod before shooting a piercing stare directly into John's narrowed eyes. "I'm sure you can see where I'm going with this."

Oh yes. He bloody well saw. "You think it's my fault." He gritted his teeth. "You're blaming me."

"Oh, heavens no!" Mycroft's eyes widened, leaning back slightly in his apparent shock at such a suggestion. "No, that is not at all what I'm suggesting. Quite the contrary – for the first time in his life Sherlock has seemingly _chosen_ someone to spend his time with. You have to understand, John, any playmates or acquaintances in my brother's life have been there merely out of circumstance or necessity. This is... the first time I've ever known him to choose to interact with someone. More to the point, that particular someone has chosen to interact with him and seemingly_enjoys_ that interaction."

John was almost too far beyond comprehension to bother trying to understand. "Right. So... what exactly is your point?"

Mycroft suddenly stood, ramrod straight and instantly with his back turned to both Greg and John; he faced the bay window, staring out at the empty and dark street whilst allowing John to sit stewing for an infuriatingly long time. It wasn't until Greg cleared his throat for the third time that Mycroft finally spoke.

"Never before has Sherlock so readily agreed to stop taking opiates." He half-turned, not quite looking at John but clearly directing his words towards him. "One mention. That was all it took."

John frowned. "One mention? One mention of what?"

Mycroft rotated slowly on the spot, pivoting in such an elegant way that John would have sworn against his mother's own life that he had taken at least one dancing lesson in his lifetime. When the man spoke, his voice was very soft, eyes betraying a flash of amusement. "You. Gregory mentioned your name once. He went to his bed and crawled underneath the covers without a further moment of fuss."

John sat perfectly still as he attempted to process the information. Mycroft seemed to take this a sign to continue.

"My brother, you see, never does it just once. He's no better than the rest of them after the first prick of the needle, seeking it out constantly, forming a habit – he functions far better than most addicts, of course, but it has been known to crack before. He has been known to... break. I mean it, though: if it is in his possession, he will inject it."

John nodded mutely.

"Upon searching his room, we found enough of a supply to last him at least two weeks."

Subconsciously John's eyes drifted up to look at the ceiling above him, wondering if Sherlock could hear their conversation.

"Yet here we are, days after his first and last high in a fair number of months and not once has he attempted to get more. Not once has he begged for something to ease his desire for the drug. My brother has no need for self-control most of the time, John, but when it comes to this habit of his... well. Self-control goes out of the metaphorical window, shall we say."

Greg finally spoke up, a welcome interlude to Mycroft's refined tones.

"You're the only thing that's different that we can think of," he explained to the still-overwhelmed John who still had his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Nothing else has changed. Add to that the fact that he hasn't argued once about going cold turkey since I mentioned the idea of your reaction to a drug habit -"

"Not to mention him dragging himself to your college accommodation whilst probably suffering from rather severe exhaustion," Mycroft intercepted, raising an eyebrow in John's direction. "It's all rather... interesting. I confess of course that before seeing him in your room, your bed specifically -" John cringed but said nothing, unsure if Sherlock still wanted him to go along with the insinuation that they were more than friends, " - I was very much under the impression that you were a dangerous addition to his life, that it would end up with one or both of you being... _damaged_..." Mycroft grimaced. "As so often happens with sentiment."

"You two are scarily alike," John muttered.

Mycroft ignored him. "But my opinions have rather changed since this evening."

"Mm. Why is that, exactly?"

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond, smile playing on his lips, when suddenly there was a creak from upstairs, the unmistakeable sound of a foot on a floorboard; all three of them glanced up to the ceiling over their heads and then at each other.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket.

_**William:**_

_Am I invited to your charming little tea party? Or would you like to come upstairs and join mine?_


	17. Chapter 17

**Hi all! Wrote a cheeky chapter at work today - it's a long one! Hope you enjoy, R&R's soooo appreciated!**

**Chapter**** Seventeen**

Mycroft tutted as a smile twitched on John's lips, watching the young man read and re-read the screen. "I assume from the look on your face that my brother has said something amusing? Let me guess… he's been listening to every word."

John glanced up, trying to suppress the smile, not wanting either Greg or Mycroft to witness the ridiculous surge of something warm and vaguely pleasant at just a few words from the curly-haired genius. "Don't know how much he's heard, but… yeah. He knows I'm here, at least."

Greg cast his eyes warily around the room. "I've always wondered if he's somehow bugged the living room. Threatened to do it after I had sex with some girl on his armchair."

The look that Mycroft shot Greg was a hilarious mixture of horror and disgust. "Oh, really, I don't think we needed to know that!"

John stood, pocketing his phone, directing the conversation back to the matter at hand, already feeling his body start to hum; he was getting edgy. "Shall I go and get him?"

An eyebrow raised, a knowing look; Mycroft's tone held no insinuation yet his words were meaningful. "I have a feeling that if you _do_ go up there, we won't be seeing either of you for a while."

Rolling his eyes, John took the few steps over to the open door. "He asked if he could join us."

Mycroft's gaze was unwavering. "Well. I'm sure that was at least part of it."

John's response was interrupted by yet another buzzing from within his pocket; he plucked the phone from his pocket and ignored Mycroft's sigh, eyes scanning the message quickly:

* * *

_**William:**_

_Regardless of what my brother has to say to you I would like, when convenient, to talk to you myself. If you would be more comfortable with both Greg and Mycroft there to witness what I have to say, however, that is of course understandable and I shall join you in the living room._

* * *

Quickly he typed back a response:

_Don't come down. I'll come to you. Mycroft is being self-important and all-knowing._

* * *

_**William:**_

_Surprised?_

* * *

John grinned slightly and raised his eyes back to the two other men in the room. Mycroft was already sliding on a long, black coat, unperturbed by John's lack of response and apparently accurately reading into it rather accurately. "We'll leave you two to have your conversation in peace, then. Gregory, you have a lecture at 9am tomorrow, correct? You should probably get some rest."

Greg shot Mycroft a mutinous glare. "If you think I'm going to my lecture after tonight -"

"I don't think, I _know_," Mycroft interrupted, plucking an umbrella from behind the chair and leaning on it like a cane. "I assured your mother I would keep an eye on you during your studies and I am certainly not going to let you miss lectures simply because you've lost out on a little sleep."

"A little sleep?! I have to be awake in five hours!"

"Plenty of time to get your head down. Come on now, get upstairs – John, you'll probably be more comfortable conducting your conversation in here rather than in Sherlock's room. There's barely enough room for a bed, let alone two young, growing men…" Mycroft trailed off, eyes piercing as they watched John for his reaction; to John's credit, however, the younger man managed to maintain a look of butter-wouldn't-melt nonchalance. "Well. Anyway. You'll most definitely be more comfortable down here."

Sherlock's voice came from behind John before the shorter man could argue, deeper than usual and quite obviously still exhausted:

"Quite."

John turned quickly, seeing the tall, pale form of Mycroft's younger brother making his way down the stairs; god, he looked terrible. John had seen better-looking corpses.

"Thank you for your advice, Mycroft, though I'm sure John and I would have managed just fine in my bedroom. Plenty of room to… converse."

Mycroft's nose wrinkled slightly. "Please, there's no need for that."

"What?" Sherlock entered the room properly, giving a brief nod to John and brushing past his brother to settle down in 'his' armchair. "I would've thought you'd be pleased. You're always telling me to get more exercise."

A small mutter of 'christ' came from Greg's corner of the room; Mycroft sighed deeply and started to walk towards the doorway, swinging his umbrella from side-to-side gently. "Calm down, Sherlock. You'll give poor Gregory a heart attack."

Sherlock cast a narrowed glance towards his apparently fragile housemate. "Serves him right for having sex in my chair."

"I knew you had this place bugged!" Greg cried, pointing at him accusatorily. "I told you -" His finger moved around the room to point at both Mycroft and John, nodding fervently, "– I told you, didn't I?"

"Go to bed, Gregory," Mycroft said wearily, stepping out into the hallway and waving his umbrella in the direction of the stairs, "you're just paranoid from lack of sleep. I mean, really," he muttered, seemingly speaking to his younger brother, "it's like looking after a child. Or a dog."

"Less grateful," Sherlock murmured back, leaning his head forward and touching his fingertips to his forehead as if in pain. "More expensive."

"Fucking hell – I'm going to bed," Greg grumbled loudly with a frown in John's direction – clearly he was wondering how he had the patience to put up with one of the Holmes' brothers, let alone both, undoubtedly questioning his sanity. "See you in a few hours, Sherlock. And John," he added almost unwillingly, looking awkward at the possibility, "suppose I might see you too."

John shrugged, a casual "don't know yet" slipping out just as Sherlock said "of course he'll be here" – both Sherlock and John found themselves staring at each other, a tiny smile playing on Sherlock's lips as John tried to read past Sherlock's allusions and see what he was really thinking; needless to say, he failed. He settled for allowing a small grin as Greg stalked past them all, muttering to himself about god knows what and stomping up the stairs and into the bathroom – the sound of running water hummed overhead as the three of them looked at each other.

Mycroft placed his hand on the front door, raising his chin slightly as he looked his brother over with a brisk gaze. "If I leave you here with John can I assume that you won't attempt to break out of the house again?"

"I'm sure he'll find some way of keeping me distracted," Sherlock said lightly, curling a few strands of hair around his long index finger as he kept his intense gaze fixed uncomfortably on Mycroft's own steady stare. Sometimes John could almost have sworn that his friend wasn't joking about it at all, so believable were his tone and manner. "And it wasn't an attempt, Mycroft. I distinctly recall that I _did_ break out."

"I suppose we can't expect Gregory to be able to watch you at all hours of the day – though if you could refrain from making it a necessity that would of course be preferable…?" There was an odd thread of genuine concern in Mycroft's voice, the question an authentic request. "If you can't bring yourself to tell me _why_, can you at least tell me if there's something any of us can do to… prevent it happening again in the future?"

Sherlock did not meet Mycroft's questioning stare. "I told you. There was no reason. I just wanted it."

"Can you not…" Mycroft struggled quietly for a moment, clearly not knowing how to phrase it, "…find something else to want? Something perhaps less destructive? Dare I say it, something legal?"

John had watched their exchange with fascination, but at this point he had to break in. "Not sure the latter is something he can promise, Mycroft."

Sherlock's full lips convulsed into another tiny grin, meeting John's gaze briefly: the observatory and breathless laughter flashed in the space between them. "Mm."

Mycroft looked between them for a moment before making a low noise in the back of his throat, clearly beyond finding their little camaraderie amusing. "Ugh. Please don't make me take back what I said earlier, John, I would so like to believe that you'll be a good influence on my little brother."

"Don't bet on it," Sherlock advised quietly, eyes still on John, "though if you're really looking for reassurance then I suppose I can say with at least _some_ confidence that I don't imagine I'll be turning back to my little habit anytime soon."

"If it's that easy, Sherlock, then _why -_"

"We've discussed this already, Mycroft, I just had a moment of what you would gleefully call _weakness_. Don't make me repeat myself again, it's an absurd waste of my time."

John glimpsed them both alternately, to the older Holmes brother with his combined look of determination and concern and the younger Holmes brother with a stare of boredom and mild irritation. It was almost amusing. Almost. "Sorry to interrupt you both during your staring competition, but it's not getting any easier to stay conscious…"

Mycroft cleared his throat, nodding and cracking open the front door. "Yes, of course. My apologies for keeping you up so late, John. I very much appreciate you putting your opinions of me aside to come here tonight."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "You _appreciate_ something somebody else did?"

John, too, was slightly alarmed. "You just apologised to me."

The tall, older man pulled the door open completely, cold air flooding in. "Contrary to popular belief, I am not as unfeeling or unreasonable as either one of you might believe."

A derisive snort came from Sherlock's general direction. "And you say _I'm_ the one with a drug problem. What have you been taking?"

Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling, turning from his little brother and stepping outside. "Let me assure you that there is very little in this world to which I would succumb to out of desire for pleasure."

"You don't need to try and convince me," Sherlock muttered, picking at his thumb nail, "we both know that you've never experienced a single moment of pleasure in your lifetime."

Mycroft was completely out of the door now, hand on the outside handle, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Hmm. You're probably right. How glad I am that I don't have such ridiculous desires to distract me."

Sherlock shot a dark look at his brother. "Goodbye, Mycroft."

A tiny smile as Mycroft swung the door closed. "Sherlock. John." The door closed behind him, as quiet as the man himself; Sherlock leaned over into the bay window and shouted (apparently not caring that Greg was attempting sleep):

"TRY THE DOCKS, THE BOYS DOWN THERE MIGHT CHANGE YOUR MIND!"

When the young man turned back to face the living room, satisfied with having had the last word, John was awkwardly hovering in the doorway with his arms shoved in his pockets; the house was so quiet now. The lamp in the corner of the room was a bright one, yet the glow it emitted was a warm light, yellow, casting a burnished glaze to everything in the room and was making John – along with the warmth of the house in general – feel rather drowsy. But he was here with Sherlock and they had a conversation to have, though what Sherlock would have to say was unknown to him. His plan had been to send that text of support to him and leave it there, leave it until Sherlock felt ready to bring it up… which he hadn't expected to happen for at least a few weeks. The fact that the clearly exhausted twenty-six year old wanted to talk about it now was slightly unnerving, though there was no real reason to be concerned.

Was there?

John cleared his throat. "So."

Sherlock was watching him closely. "Indeed."

John edged into the room a little more, hands still rooted deeply within his pockets. "You all right?"

Sherlock did not laugh at the ridiculous question, though the slight eye-roll was a clear enough indicator that it was a stupid query. Still, he did answer.

"Tired. You?"

He rounded the arm of the sofa and sat on the edge of the seat. "Same."

Icy eyes were still watching him intently. "Want to sleep? I can get you some blankets. Mrs. Hudson has plenty stored away in the central heating cupboard."

John's brow creased at the unfamiliar name. "Mrs. Hudson?"

"My landlady."

"Oh." One slow blink later and John was concerned he may have fallen asleep for a few moments. "No. No, you wanted to talk to me. I'm awake." He shook himself a little, widening his eyes and forcing himself to meet Sherlock's stare. "I'm fine, I'm awake."

"You're exhausted," Sherlock contradicted sharply, "you haven't had nearly as much sleep today as you usually would. Your body isn't used to it."

John shook his head again, forcing his eyes open as wide as he could. "No, I'm fine, Sherlock. Really. Talk to me." He forced himself to remain on the edge of the sofa, determined not to sink back into the soft leather lest he give in to the warmth and comfort and drift off.

Sherlock stood. "I'm going to get you some blankets."

John leapt up himself. "No, I'm fine!"

"John." Sherlock was glaring at him through heavily fatigued eyes, the very picture of lethargy. "What I want to say to you can wait. It would probably be more prudent to wait until daytime anyway."

Confusing. "Why?"

Sherlock sighed, looking away for a moment. "If we speak whilst we're both as tired as we are, we may end up saying things we would regret after a decent few hours' worth of sleep. It's like what you said a few weeks ago, about talking in the dark; we say things, feel things we wouldn't necessarily say or feel when the lights are on. The same goes for when we can't think straight."

John waited until Sherlock's gaze met his own once more. "You remember that."

Sherlock gave a quick jerk of his head, impatient. "Of course I remember that. _You_ said it."

The inflection on the 'you' was odd, should have made John feel uncomfortable but – almost as if proving what Sherlock had said – instead he felt a surge of warmth through his veins, a gentle tingling where there would usually be discomfort at the implied intimacy. A thought crossed his mind, a small chuckle escaping his throat; Sherlock's eyes narrowed, body visibly tensing.

"Why are you laughing?"

John shook his head, looking down at the carpet; no, he'd keep that thought to himself. "It's nothing."

"_Tell_ me." The tone was insistent, agitated. John raised his eyes and saw Sherlock frowning, lips slightly open. "I warn you, I have a very short fuse tonight. I won't want to ask more than twice."

Allowing himself the satisfaction of a small eye-roll, John laced his fingers together in his lap and shrugged, keeping his tone light and casual despite Sherlock's reference to his current delicate situation. "I don't know, it's just… it's weird, isn't it?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, arms folding over his chest. "_What_ is weird? Really, John, specifics would be preferable."

"It's just that… it doesn't feel like it's only been a couple of weeks. You know?" John glanced up at Sherlock again, noting that the tension in the man's body hadn't yet left. "I was thinking on the way over here – well, I couldn't get to sleep. So I went for a walk, ended up in Greenwich Park."

"And I found myself deep in sleep," Sherlock remarked quietly, relaxing the tiniest bit. "We must have switched places."

"Mm. But it made me start thinking of everything we've been through in the last two weeks and how quickly… how quickly it all just _escalated_."

"Escalated?" Sherlock frowned again at the use of the word. "You make it sound like a bad thing. Oh, well," he added, his voice suddenly harsh, "I can't blame you for that after tonight. No doubt you -"

"If you let me finish, Sherlock, you'll actually hear what I'm trying to explain."

Slightly mollified by John's stern tone, Sherlock rolled his eyes and adopted a somewhat sulky glare. "Fine. Get on with it, then."

John sighed. Was it actually worth trying to explain himself? "I meant escalated as in… well. Look at us." He extended his hand, directing it first to Sherlock and then back to himself. "We've known each other two weeks and already I've told you you're an arsehole, admitted that you're my friend, got raving drunk at your house and had someone assume that we're gay together _on our first meeting_, went for a casual two-hour walk around campus, had dinner at a rather cosy Italian restaurant, broken into the Greenwich Observatory and now, well, we're standing here at god knows what time in the morning after a _very_ dramatic evening like the weirdest duo that ever lived… the depressive and the drug addict."

Shock flitted across Sherlock's face at John's casual reference, quickly replaced by annoyance, rapidly changing to amusement. "The depressive and the drug addict?"

John covered his mouth, trying to suppress the smile threatening to shape itself on his lips. "Saddo and Junkie."

Sherlock's own lips creased into a grin. "Not the best nickname I've ever had."

"The _only_ nickname you've ever had."

"True."

The two of them stared at each other for a few moments more before slowly John allowed himself to sit back down on the sofa, looking up at Sherlock with his own silly grin still spread out over his face; Sherlock's grin lessened but did not disappear completely as he still lingered in the middle of the room. When he eventually broke the silence, he gestured towards the door.

"I'm still going to get you some blankets."

But now John was buzzing again. "I don't want to sleep."

"Still," Sherlock said, x-ray gaze as piercing as ever, "you will at some point. You may as well stay here. We can go over all of the studying you haven't been doing later today."

At once John became serious. "Are you going to be… all right to do that?"

Sherlock let out a little 'pfft' noise, looking down at John with increasing condescension. "Please, John. My brain is far more capable than most recovering addicts at getting back to normal. I'll be fine."

And, like that, they were on the subject they had initially been meaning to discuss. John was hesitant, but he knew that if they were going to move on and figure out a way of getting on with this they'd have to talk about it. "I… have questions."

"I know."

"But I don't want to ask if -"

Sherlock put his hand out, silencing him. "I'll get the blankets and make us a cup of tea. Then you can ask your questions. All right?"

John nodded. "Okay."

**- X -**

With John covered in blankets and holding a steaming cup of tea between his hands, Sherlock sat in the armchair and began to talk.

"I was fifteen when I was first introduced to drugs. I was at boarding school, one where the mere mention of drugs was to bring shame on your entire family and so, in the end, it should have been a difficult process. It shouldn't have been possible. But, needless to say, it was.

A boy came to our school, seemingly from the right people. He was a typically 'nice' sort of boy, not like most of the boys in my year – he lacked the arrogance of the rest of us, was humble and gentle, worked hard and got better grades than most of the honour students already enrolled; he never stopped. When he wasn't studying in the library or taking advanced classes he was out on the rugby pitch or badminton courts, always going, constantly motivated to do this and that and for the life of me I couldn't work it out. I couldn't read him. Believe me, John, I tried. He intrigued me, in truth I was a little infatuated with him – oh, not like that, I saw that little flash of surprise in your eyes. No, not in a sexual or romantic way, nothing like that at all. He was simply… unknown. And because of that, I became obsessed.

Eventually my own academic prowess managed to ensnare him, and god knows I had worked harder than ever to ensure such a result. He came to me one day to discuss my notes, wanting to see them and to be advised by me how to take better notes so as to retain information the way that I did – imagine his amazement when I explained that it was unnecessary for me to write my notes down, absorbing it all and always able to spout back any information from days, weeks, months before. He seemed quite as intrigued by me as I was by him, and one day it seemed that we had actually cemented an acquaintanceship and a partnership, the two cleverest boys at school, the audacious one and the nice one. We were a formidable team and everybody knew us. It felt, for the first time in my life, what it was like to be accepted. I revelled in it.

One day he dropped his bag in the dormitory and out of it rolled a small bottle of pills – it looked like prescription medication, something called Adderall… I'm sure you're well aware that it's a stimulant, most often used for ADHD and narcolepsy. I picked it up and enquired about it – I was careful, remained calm, kept my tone low and simply acted as if I were merely curious rather than accusing him of anything. As far as I had been aware he had no medical issues, in fact he was seemingly strong as a horse and was quickly turning into one of the athletic stars as well as an apparent academic genius. The boy – Peter, his name was – he looked at me for a good long while before making excuses, telling me that he had picked it up for a friend, that it was nothing to do with him. Being rather sharp at deducing people's tone and mannerisms as I was, I decided to let it go, predicting that if I were to leave it for a while and stay silent about the matter he would come to me eventually, piqued by my own interest.

Needless to say, I was right.

He took them to help him study. He barely slept – he was quite proud of this – and relied heavily on these prescription meds to get him through each day. He found boundless energy with them, finding that with 23 hours a day at his disposal he could practice with his sports teams and study in the library whilst soaring through his assignments with top marks and accolades aplenty – oh, it was music to my ears. At first I was dismissive, uninterested, but as he started to eclipse me in everything and I steadily became his arrogant friend – whereas before he had been _my_ nice friend – I finally asked him to let me try it. He gladly let me, pleased to have someone in on his little secret; I think that he was actually far more obsessed with me than I was with him, mostly as I now knew what lay beneath his apparent layers of intellect, I knew the reasons behind his unfailing talents. He held no thrall for me now, but for him he had found a partner in crime and genius, and giving me the Adderall and watching me experience its effects was, I think, greatly pleasurable to him.

It did not, however, benefit me. I became irritable, agitated, far too easily falling into moments of anger and darkness, succumbing to – and here it is, John, the reason I seem to know so much on the topic – depression. I took it for a month, waiting for the glory of it all to finally settle in and make me even greater than Peter, but alas I found myself sinking deeper and deeper until finally I threw the bottle in Peter's face and snarled to him to find me a cure, to find me something to make it all better. Alarmed, and probably frightened that I would tell an authority figure about his little habit, he got hold of some Vicodin for me and therein started my journey into opiates. Peter excelled, continued to aim higher and higher, his magical addiction providing him with the foothold to become Head Boy and something far greater than I ever had been; meanwhile I had begun an addiction, a torrid love-affair. I began to fail my classes. My parents were called. Peter stopped talking to me. I was taken out of boarding school and sent to a school closer to home so that they could keep an eye on me.

I won't go into details John; forgive me, but I feel I couldn't possibly put my downfall into the right words. What I can tell you is that Vicodin was eventually overtaken at the age of seventeen by the drug I am now suffering withdrawal symptoms from, a drug that I quickly fell in arduous love with and became utterly obsessed with in a way that I… well. I simply cannot put it into words. But it was a dangerous fall and clearly, two years later, I am still struggling with my battle against it. My parents suffered at the hands of my addiction – my brother too, a source of resentment that I am most certain has not yet dissipated – this happening after a particularly terrible overdose, something that left me in a coma and almost destroyed both my life and the lives of those around me.

I refused professional help; I expect that this is why even now I still fail myself and my family at times and find myself in a darkened alley with a questionable piece of scum who takes my money and hands me the most destructive substance I have ever experienced… I wish I could explain it to you, John, truly I do. I wish I could find the words to explain how it grips you, holds you tight until you find you can barely breathe and then, just when it lets go, you find yourself longing for it once more. In the past when I have been in recovery yet again, I'll find myself sinking back into a black mood or phase of depression, something that of course makes me know to an extent how you feel and how your illness affects you. I warned you of the ease of slipping into substance abuse, and that is purely from experience. It _is_ true that had I not begun my journey of illegal drugs I may not have had any form of depression, therefore not reaching out to drugs once more to bring me out of the darkness, but alas, hindsight is far too sharp and I cannot begrudge it for its nature. No point dwelling on it.

And so, there you are, John. My little story. My fall. I have an addiction and it is not romantic nor interesting; it's festering, continuous, an endless battle. There is not a day that goes by where I don't think of it, want it – luckily my mind is advanced as such that I relish the challenge, distracting myself with such insanity as breaking into listed buildings and risking my life in the very dark, damp streets of London's depths, mixing with criminals and making them both my allies and my foes – oh, John, it's another type of addiction entirely. But it leads to the question: which would be preferable? The drug or the actions? The heroin or the adrenaline? I know which one you would probably pick – though reluctantly, as I'm sure any action that would risk my life you'd look down upon – and of course, that is the one which I choose more often than not. I distract myself well and I do not give into my temptation.

Evidently, that is not always the case. Hence where we are now and the conversation that we're having."

By the time Sherlock had finished speaking, John was both in the throes of drowsiness and utterly involved, eyes wide open and body frozen in its sheer exhaustion. He had absorbed every word and knew that it would take some time to process it all, so many details to think over… christ, his mind was a mess of information. There were only a few things that floated with some clarity to the surface, breaking through the mulch and making him want to ask questions despite nearly all of the questions he'd originally had having already been answered – and he didn't want to have to ask questions. The curly-haired man's voice was already cracking from use, Sherlock's body leaning forward in sheer exhaustion as his fists clenched and his eyes closed slowly and opened just as slow.

There would be time for questions later. Not now.

When John spoke, his voice was barely a murmur. "Thank you."

Sherlock eyed him. "For what?"

John did not feel he needed to explain. "All of it."

Nodding slowly, Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face, his throat sounding sore as he spoke into the dimly lit room once again. "Did I miss anything? Do you have any more questions?"

John hesitated. "I do… but they're not important."

"Sure? I can manage a few more minutes."

"No," John said, shaking his head. "They really aren't important, they – WAIT." One particular question began screaming itself hoarse in the back of his mind, probably the _least_ important question but one that he absolutely had to get out in the open. "Wait, wait. In your story, you said that you started on the heroin when you were seventeen."

Sherlock nodded, eyes guarded. "Yes."

"And _then_ you said…" John stared at him, his mind creeping along ridiculously slow behind his voice. "You said _two years later, I'm still struggling_."

Surprise shadowed Sherlock's face before a tiny flicker of understanding glittered in his eyes. "I did say that."

John stared even harder, barely even able to ask the question. "So… you're…" He shook his head. "You're _nineteen_?!"

Sherlock simply nodded. "And?"

His body collapsed into itself, falling back onto the soft leather cushion behind him as he brought the blankets up to his chin. John was in a state of shock, for the most ridiculous of reasons. "You're a _teenager_!"

"Does that bother you?"

"Yes!" John exploded, eyes wide, throwing his hands up in the air as a stupidly big smile spread over his face. "I mean – well, no, not really, but at the same time, yes! Yes, it's… I thought you were twenty-six!"

"I know."

"Oh, you _know_?" John cried, burying his face in the soft blankets. "But you didn't think you needed to tell me?"

Sherlock looked at him intently, uncomprehending. "I don't understand why this bothers you so much."

John closed his eyes, trying to calm himself; he was overreacting – true, he was overreacting with a grin and it was in actual fact not a big deal at all, but _still_. "You're seven years _younger_ than I thought you were. Four years younger than me."

"Then tell me, John," Sherlock mused quietly, leaning forward and leaning his elbows on his legs as he stared intently at his friend, "does this change how you look at me? Do you like me any less? Respect me any less?"

John gazed back. "No…"

"Do you want to rescind your friendship? Take it all back? Go back to your accommodation and pretend we never even met?"

John was appalled. "No!"

Sherlock shrugged, narrowing his eyes. "Then what's the problem?"

The shorter – and now apparently _older_ – man deflated completely, curling into the blankets. "There isn't one."

Triumphant, Sherlock gave a small, smug grin. "Just as I thought. Age doesn't make any difference, John. Granted, if I were ordinary or what you consider to be normal I would probably have a larger influx of hormones than you currently do, however I've never been affected by them and I am exactly the same person as a self-confessed nineteen year as I would be if I were your assumed twenty-six year old. It changes nothing."

John sighed, knowing his entire reaction had been an over-exaggeration brought on my tiredness and the drama of the evening – he had embarrassed himself a bit. "Sorry. Guess I'm just… tired."

"It's all right," Sherlock allowed generously, straightening his back and resting his hands on the armrests. "We both are. Which leads me to -"

"Sleep?"

Sherlock nodded. "I think it's best if we both try and get a few hours, even if it really is only a few. If you're sure you have nothing else you want to ask me."

John eyed him for a moment, taking in his calm composure. "You're being very open. I appreciate that. Admire it, too."

Sherlock stood, the motion seeming almost effortless had it not been for the gentle sway of his body as he regained his balance; he looked more exhausted than John felt, and that was saying something.

"Don't get too used to it, John. Sentiment is _so_ dull."


	18. Chapter 18

**Another chapter written whilst practically falling asleep - hope it's not too crappy! xD Still, I genuinely enjoy every darned second of writing this fic, so either way I'm happy! Love and hugs, thanks so much for the continuing support!**

**Chapter Eighteen**

John slept absurdly well. The sofa was just long enough that his feet brushed the other end, the blankets were incredibly warm and there was a strange comfort in knowing that just upstairs was a friend – well, no, _two_ friends – and all these things combined allowed John to have the deepest, most uninterrupted sleep he'd had in the last few months. When he woke up six hours later it was a natural and gentle awakening where, rather than staring at the ceiling and deciding to just fall back to sleep (because what was the point in waking up?), he let out a satisfied groan as he stretched out his arms, pushing the blankets from his torso, turning on his side and finding himself facing a cup of tea steaming on the coffee table in front of him.

His eyes instantly darted over to the armchair.

"Good morning, John."

Sherlock sat on the armchair with a laptop precariously balanced on the arm, a cup of tea in his hand; he was already dressed, no longer in a polo-shirt and jeans but the fitted shirt and trousers that John had come to associate with him. Over the top of the shirt it looked as if he were wearing a robe, burgundy and well-worn, an odd addition to his usual formality but strangely fitting whilst sitting with no shoes on and a cup of tea brought calmly to his lips.

John felt like a mess in comparison. "Hi… morning. What time is it?"

Sherlock did not look at him, eyes fixated on the screen in front of him. "Half past nine."

Christ. When was the last time he'd seen half past nine in the morning? "Did Greg make it to his lecture?"

"Oh, certainly. I ensured it."

John grinned slightly, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself so that he was sitting up properly. "Bet you're not his favourite person."

"Luckily I have enough experience in being nobodies favourite person to help me through this difficult time," Sherlock said, a sarcastic edge to his tone. "I'm sure I can cope with it."

_Well, that was a quick recovery,_ John thought wryly, pushing the blankets off of himself completely and swinging his legs over the side of the sofa, well aware of his rumpled clothes and no doubt completely mussed-up hair; almost as if reading his mind and wanting to glorify in the fact, Sherlock glanced over at him and gave him a small smirk.

"You look like a hedgehog."

John's hands went instantly up to his hair and ruffled it violently. "Wow, thanks."

"No problem."

Reaching over and carefully gripping the steaming cup in one hand, John found himself looking with interest around the room that he had been too tired to take notice of the night before, eyes lingering on bits and pieces as they travelled: it was a very nice, large room. It had clearly once been two separate rooms with a wall between them, but at one point or another its owner had decided to separate the two and it now had a nice archway leading through from the sitting room to a dining room with a lovely mixed-wood table, six matching chairs neatly positioned around it. The wallpaper going through into both rooms seemed relatively old-fashioned, wide deep red and gold horizontal stripes with a mid-wall detailed border; in the living room itself there was the three-seater worn leather sofa against the wall which John was currently sitting on (the same wall which had the doorway out into the hall) and in the bay window was Sherlock's large leather armchair, looking slightly out of place all on its own but cleverly distracted from by two small glass rounded tables either side with various books and papers scattered upon them – one of them even had a pretty crystal vase settled on top of a chunky pile of paper but, unsurprisingly, had nothing in it.

Something that John had failed to notice until now was the lack of a television in the room, something foreign to him; instead on the wall opposite the sofa there was a large fireplace, beautiful ironwork and a deep oak frame making it fit perfectly within the cosy atmosphere. Above the fireplace hung a huge golden-framed mirror, making the whole space seem brighter and bigger than it actually was; on the actual mantelpiece sat candles of varying sizes, a skull – John couldn't be sure but it looked like a genuine, human skull – and a little tub of something he couldn't identify from here… possibly Vaseline? Polish?

The floor was wooden, much like the hallway, but underneath the coffee table and stretching out as far as the edge of the sofa was a deep red rug, soft underneath John's feet and adding to the general warm feeling of the room; the same style rug was also beneath the dining room table. In the middle of the dining room table was a large ivory pillar candle spiked on top of a plain black candlestick. There seemed to be pictures hung on the walls but from here John couldn't define what they were, though the hue stuck to the theme of the rooms and radiated warm reds, oranges, yellows and golds. A large wooden sideboard was to the left of the dining room table, though again John couldn't see what rested upon it from his position on the sofa. French doors adorned with heavy ivory curtains sat at the end of the house, opening out into the garden which, of course, John had already seen. Presumably the yellow-walled kitchen was to the left of the dining room.

All in all, it was very nice – warm, absolutely warm, it was the only word John could think of to describe the whole setup and decoration.

Ceasing his curiosity, he brought the cup of tea to his lips and looked back towards Sherlock who was, rather than staring intently at the laptop, looking straight at him. He smiled awkwardly. "Very nice. Warm."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "It's not usually so tidy. Mycroft is a stickler for cleanliness."

"Mycroft cleaned in here?"

"Of course not," Sherlock said derisively, draining the last dregs of his tea, "Greg would have had to do it."

John couldn't help but give a short bark of laughter – god, poor Greg. Living with one Holmes brother and being under the thumb of the other probably wasn't the most pleasant experience… but, still, he lived here for free. There had to be _some_ perks.

Sherlock was still staring at him, looking thoughtful.

"What?"

The genius placed his cup on the glass table next to him and stood, walking towards the door. "Would you prefer to go home and shower before we concentrate on the work that you've missed in my absence?"

John balked, looking down at his sleep-wrinkled clothes and back up at Sherlock. "I don't know, I hadn't really thought about it. Would you prefer it if I did?"

Sherlock turned, glancing him over and shrugging briefly. "It doesn't much matter to me either way. Whatever suits you."

John allowed himself a few minutes to think it over; he felt a little groggy, a little grubby and more than a little self-conscious when in the presence of an extremely clean-looking Sherlock – it probably wouldn't have bothered him if the man looked anything like he had ten hours ago, but now he felt extremely out of place and didn't relish the idea of having to sit and concentrate on whatever delights Sherlock had planned whilst in the same clothes as the day before. He rubbed his hands on his thighs and pushed himself into a standing position – his muscles groaned. As comfortable as the sofa had been, it wasn't quite a substitute for a real mattress.

He patted the pocket of his jeans to make sure his keys were still there. "Yeah, all right. I'll go get showered and change my clothes. Meet you back here afterwards?"

Sherlock nodded. "Try not to take too long."

**- X -**

Studying with Sherlock in person wasn't all that different to over the internet. They sat opposite each at the small, round kitchen table, laptops facing their respective owners whilst Sherlock sent page after page of course material for him to look at and John found himself instantly overwhelmed with the sheer amount of notes he would have to take. It was odd; two hours ago he had felt so incredibly normal – disturbingly so – and yet now, sitting in the sunny kitchen with his friend after what definitely counted as his most satisfying sleep in _months _he found himself back in the rut, in the grey, in the flat expanse of his ridiculous mental handicap. He found himself staring alternately at Sherlock and the screen, waiting for one of them to hold some sort of grasp on his attention yet nothing stuck. The words in front of him might as well have been a different took him less than an hour before he tilted his laptop screen down and closed his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I can't do it, Sherlock. There's too much, you've given me too much to focus on at once."

"Focus on one assignment at a time and stop thinking about the others," Sherlock replied calmly, his eyes zigzagging over whatever he was looking at on his screen. "You never had a problem with multiple assignments back before your depression – if you could do it then, you can do it now."

"That's the thing, though... I _have_ depression now." John lightly jabbed the table with his finger, raising his eyebrows towards Sherlock. "It's taking all I've got just to sit here opposite you and even _look_ at what you sent me."

"Mm." Sherlock didn't sound in the least bit interested. "So what are you going to do about it?"

"Well, apparently I'm supposed to forget I have a bunch of mulchy crap in my head and just -"

"No," the impatient genius interrupted, gaze still focused on his screen, "what are you going to do about your depression?"

John stared at him. "I don't know. Get over it?"

"How?"

A frown flickered onto his brow, creasing his forehead. "By... not being a total and utter failure?"

Sherlock shot him a dark look from over the top of his screen. "Be serious."

"I am," John said lightly, jabbing his finger into the table again. "If I can get my work done and start getting my grades back up, I'll start to feel better about myself."

"Hmm."

A sigh escaped John's lips. "_What_?"

"What do you mean, 'what'?"

"Whenever you say 'hmm' it's because you're thinking about something and not bothering to say it. I swear you do it just to irritate me."

Sherlock glanced up again. "You seem to assume that I do a lot of things to irritate you."

"No, don't try and distract me." John leaned forward. "What are you thinking but not saying?"

"Oh, a veritable chasm of things, let me assure you -"

"_Sherlock_."

Sherlock slammed the lid of his laptop down. "Fine. Your depression isn't the consequence of your bad grades, your bad grades are a consequence of your depression. All of the things that you associate with your depression – _like_ your terrible essays, your introversion, your constant sleeping, your lack of a healthy diet and regular exercise – they are _consequences_. Fix any of those, all of them even, and you still won't find yourself without depression."

John clenched his jaw. "Right. So. You're saying I'm stuck like this forever? No, wait, that's not an option because if I _am_ going to be stuck like this forever I may as well just kill myse-"

"That's not even faintly amusing," Sherlock cut across him sharply, eyes blazing wintry irritation, "so don't even joke about it."

John steadily met Sherlock's frustration with his own calm gaze, shrugging his shoulders once and not bothering to respond with words; he didn't need to. He could see the irritation in his friend's icy eyes turn rapidly to determined anger, then simply to determination as the man read him like a book and saw... well. He saw. John didn't need to put it into words.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice was laced with a steely resoluteness. "All right then. So we're both agreed it's high time you start dealing with your depression properly?"

John had a feeling of where this was going and he felt his own frustration rise in response. "Don't even bother suggesting it, Sherlock, it's not going to happen."

"Stop being so obtuse about it and just _consider_ it."

"What about you?"

Sherlock's lip curled. "What _about_ me?"

John tilted his chin up slightly. "Not that I want to be a bastard or anything but you're being just a tiny bit hypocritical, don't you think?"

"I don't -" Sherlock broke off, understanding dawning on his face; it quickly turned to something far darker, something John couldn't quite define. "No. No, I'm dealing with it my way. Don't interfere."

John rolled his eyes, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms. "Oh, what, you can interfere with my problems but I can't interfere in yours?"

"It's not the same," Sherlock responded through gritted teeth, no longer looking at him but instead at the wall to the left of him. "Different circumstances, different... problems."

"You can't just -"

"I mean it, John." Sherlock forced his gaze up, eyes fiery. "Don't interfere."

"Fine." John stood up, slamming his own laptop closed. "If we're not going to be on an even keel there's no point carrying on with this conversation."

Sherlock stood too, glaring imperiously across the table at his short friend. "We aren't done here! You have work to do!"

"I can do this studying just as well at home as I can here."

"Oh no you can't," Sherlock said with a sarcastic laugh, "you'll just end up sleeping!"

"Maybe I _want_ to sleep!"

"Well maybe you just want to fail all of your classes, then!" They were practically shouting now, their words echoing off of the walls and back at them. "Fine, go, that's fine! Go and wallow in your depressive little pit, go and crawl back into your hole, see if it makes any difference to me!"

John rolled his eyes, grabbing his laptop from the table and shoving it under his arm. "I'm just asking you to be bloody _fair_, Sherlock, and I don't think that's asking too much after last night! There's no need to be such a... a... _dickpiece_ about it!"

Sherlock's mouth opened as if to retort, finger pointing dramatically towards John, but rather than respond with what would have no doubt been something razor-sharp and good enough to cut straight to the bone he simply clamped his lips shut again and sat down heavily on the chair. For a few moments he sat there silently, staring at the table, John glaring down at Sherlock with a gradually receding self-righteous anger pounding through his ears and making him feel ever so slightly light-headed; neither of them spoke for a full minute, the seconds ticking past and making the tension grow and become stale.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, quiet.

"Is it always like this?"

John didn't pretend to misunderstand; all the fight left his body as he, too, collapsed back onto his chair. "I've never had a friendship quite like it, I'll say that."

Sherlock slowly shifted his eyes up to meet John's. "It's exhausting."

"I know."

"But worth it, I think."

A small smile flitted over John's lips. "I know."

"Why do you think it is?" Sherlock seemed to be genuinely bewildered, brow creased in confusion. "Why do you think we always seem to have to have some sort of... emotional... _explosion_?"

"I don't know," John admitted, rubbing his palm over his face, "I really don't. I mean, I guess it kind of helps me. Breaks me out of my... grey."

"Mm."

"But why you end up getting so riled up I have no idea. You're _supposed_ to be a sociopath."

Sherlock sighed. "I _am_ a sociopath, John. You just bring out the worst in me."

"You think this is the worst of you?"

"Oh no, I was talking about the smiling. I do far too much of that with you."

Their eyes met - small smiles were exchanged; tension was broken.

John decided he might as well say it. "Thing is, Sherlock, I know very, very, _very_ deep down that you're right about... what I have to do. I know it and it frustrates the _hell_ out of me that I'm probably going to have to end up doing something I don't want to do in order to escape whatever it is that's wrong with me. I'm going to have to... talk... to someone."

"Yes."

"But..." He hesitated. "I don't think I can do it whilst knowing that you're doing absolutely _nothing_ to... help... well. Yourself. And I know you don't want me to interfere and I know I should respect your choice," he added hurriedly, "but the truth is that if you don't do something about it I'll just worry about it. About you. And that might make me feel even worse."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "You're... using it against me."

John shrugged.

"No, you are. You're using your depression against me. That's emotional blackmail."

"But you're a sociopath," John reasoned calmly, shrugging again. "So it shouldn't matter."

Sherlock looked genuinely stunned, eyes blankly staring at John as if seeing him for the first time. "That's... no, it is, it's blackmail!"

"It's the truth." John's gaze was steady as ever, open, honest. "Because whether you or I like it or not, Sherlock, I _will_ worry about you. No matter how much you tell me not to, that you can handle it, I'm still going to worry. And it would make me feel a lot better about all of this if you took the first step with me."

Sherlock balked. "_With_ you?"

"Yes. We'll both get... help. We'll both find someone to talk to. Not at the same time, don't worry, just... do it with me. Do it with me and maybe it'll feel a little easier to walk in there knowing I'm not the only one preparing to lay myself open to a complete stranger."

His genius friend didn't seem to know where to look. "I don't _talk_ to people, John. Not about these things. They're no one's business but mine."

John's voice was soft. "And mine. Just as mine are yours."

Sherlock looked up. "That's a mistake, you know. Mycroft was right. You shouldn't get involved."

John set his laptop down on the table, opening the old machine up and bravely, determinedly typing 'London University of Sciences student support' into the intranet and hitting Enter. "Too late for that now. The damage is done. I'm involved."

"Mm." Sherlock stared at him, slightly incredulous. "I suppose that means I am, too."


	19. Chapter 19

**I've been waiting a long time to write this chapter - no, it's not slash, don't get too excited! Anyhoo, hope you enjoy it and please do keep R&Ring, I'm trying to respond to all reviews from people who are registered to the site, though obviously I can't respond to those who aren't. A quick shoutout to RasuOnyx (guest), though - your reviews made me smile constantly yesterday! xD Hope you enjoyed whatever else you read!**

**Chapter Nineteen**

"John?"

"Mm?"

Sherlock looked up from one of the many books scattered around him on the floor of the living room, brow creased. "Do you have a favourite colour?"

Carefully highlighting a passage of text, John did not take his eyes off of the page. "What?"

"A colour, a favourite colour. Do you have one?"

He glanced up with a frown, unsure he'd heard correctly. "You're asking me what my favourite colour is?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking a book up and letting his eyes fall to the open page. "I didn't realise it was that difficult a question."

"No, it's just..." John shrugged, lips twitching into a half smile. "I don't know, it seems like an odd thing to ask. You never ask me things like that."

"My apologies, remind me not to ask you anything in the future..."

John simply stared at him, bewildered. "Why are you asking me?"

Sherlock shut the book with a 'snap', throwing it down in front of him and placing both hands flat on top of it. "I don't know, isn't it the sort of thing friends know about each other? Favourite colours, siblings, childhood pets? I've known you for a significant amount of time now, John, and I don't know any of these things. So... I'm asking them. Colour? Sibling? Pet?"

John put down the highlighter on the coffee table. "It's been just over a month, Sherlock."

The genius glared at him like he was the biggest idiot in the room; technically he probably was. "Yes. A significant amount of time."

"Significant how?"

"Why are you being so difficult about this?" Sherlock's arms went akimbo into the air, looking every inch the impatient and disgruntled child. "They're very simple questions, John, I'm not asking you to explain the meaning of life!"

"All right, all right, calm down! I was just... surprised. You hate chitchat. How do you even know what sorts of things friends know about each other? Not to sound like a possessive lover about it, but I thought I was your first." John couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, so odd it was to hear Sherlock so agitated about something so minor. "Have you been Googling again?"

"Oh, it's always Google with you, isn't it? You're never going to let that go!"

John placed his hands on the coffee table, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "All right. I can see this is upsetting you."

Sherlock made a rasping noise in the back of his throat. "Ugh, I'm not _upset._"

"Fine. Fine. My favourite colour is blue. Okay? Blue."

Sighing, Sherlock leaned back on the front of the chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankle. "Thank you. Was that so difficult?"

John grinned. "Terribly. What about you?"

"What about me?"

"Do you have a favourite colour?"

Sherlock's responding glance was full of disgust. "Don't be ridiculous. Colours are unimportant."

"So why – no, forget it. All right, so, tell me something about you then." John let himself flop back onto the soft leather of the sofa, feeling very much at home – the last few weeks since The Revelatory Evening had changed a lot for them, the most obvious thing being that John rarely left Sherlock and Greg's house. It was now much closer to home than his own bare college room. "I know you have Mycroft. Any other siblings?"

"No, thankfully."

"Pets?"

Sherlock looked away. "Not now."

"Not now?"

"We used to have a dog. A red setter. Redbeard, I... _we_ called him."

"Oh." John felt the uncomfortable pressure of knowing he'd asked a question that clearly had some unresolved issues attached. "Redbeard... is that in reference to anything?"

Sherlock started to fiddle with a pen, clicking the end over and over. He grunted. John grinned.

"Tell me."

"Why?"

John shrugged. "I told you my favourite colour."

Pale eyes glanced up at him through narrowed eyes. "And I told you I had a dog."

"So ask me something else, then."

The taller man took a few moments, a comfortable silence settling around them; a clock ticked from the dining room, marking the seconds until Sherlock finally spoke again. "Do you have any siblings?"

John raised an eyebrow. "Why are you asking me when you clearly already know the answer?"

Sherlock pursed his lips. "What makes you think I already know?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes. And because I saw you looking at the photographs on my noticeboard last week."

A small smile. "So. A sister."

"Yes. Harriet. Harry."

"Older or younger?"

John couldn't help the smug grin. "Twins, actually."

Sherlock's responding grin was just as smug. "So technically she would still be younger or older than you are."

_Damn it._ "All right then, _technically_ she's older than I am. Happy?"

"Naturally. Pets, then. Any of those?" Sherlock's leg was jiggling slightly, almost as if antsy in his anticipation to hear the answer. "Cat? Dog? Mouse? Rat? Goldfish?"

John shook his head. "No pets. Oh, well, Harry had two goldfish for about a week when she was six before one of them apparently murdered the other and she tearfully flushed them both down the toilet. Said she couldn't love the living one for what he did to his brother."

"Huh. Sentiment. Leads to nothing but aggravation."

"And murder."

Sherlock flashed him the tiniest of smiles, gone as quickly as it had come. "Quite."

John leaned forward with a tiny groan, launching himself up off of the sofa and looking down at his friend with raised eyebrows as the clock in the dining room chimed out 4pm. "Cup of tea?"

"Mm." Sherlock curled his legs up underneath him and pushed himself into a standing position, graceful and lithe as ever. "Greg should be home soon, we can decide what to do about dinner when he gets here."

"Right you are," John agreed, leading the way through the hallway into the bright kitchen; a cold April had made way for a rather beautiful May, enough that the windows were open and cool, sun-kissed air was making its way inside as Sherlock walked over to the kettle and put it on, John reaching up into a cupboard to get down three mugs. "I was thinking maybe we could actually cook tonight rather than order takeaway."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, taking the mugs from John's hands and placing them on the counter, reaching over for the tea bags. "But it's Thursday. It's Thai night."

"Yeees," John said patiently, wandering over to the fridge and pulling it open, checking out the non-existent contents, "but it would also be the fifth night in a row that we've all eaten takeaway. I'm not too keen on aiming for a heart attack by the time I'm thirty."

"So you can make yourself something and Greg and I will have Thai."

"No," John shut the door and turned to his friend, trying to look as serious as he could whilst Sherlock was practically pouting like a child, "no, we're all going to eat together and it will be something that we make from scratch. Or, y'know, sort of from scratch. Something that hasn't come out of the microwave. If you really want Thai we can pick up a sauce from the supermarket and make our own."

Sherlock shot him a dark look. "I don't _like_ supermarket Thai."

"You don't know that, Sherlock, you've never tried it."

"Hmmph. I don't want to go to the supermarket." The tall, stubborn man-child noisily stirred hot water into the cup, soaking the teabags. "It's loud and... full of people."

"Yes, it's reality, get over it." John re-opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of milk, opening it and giving it a sniff – he recoiled, slamming the lid on top of it but not twisting it on. "Jesus. _Jesus._ My eyes are watering..."

Sherlock smirked, still stirring the tea despite the milk obviously being useless and therefore rendering their tea undrinkable. "Milk out of date?"

"Why would you leave it in there that long?!" John squinted his eyes at the label, recoiling again just from reading the date. "Best before the eighteenth of April! This milk has been in here nearly as long as I've known you, Sherlock, christ!"

"The milk is Greg's responsibility, not mine. Actually, as you're here so often we should probably talk about you putting some money in for groceries -"

John threw the milk bottle lid at him. "I've already bought more food in the last week alone than you have, so don't even _try_ it."

Sherlock dodged the lid. "Electricity, gas, water, internet -"

"Oh, you can fu-"

The front door slammed shut, cutting off John's bad language as Greg strode into the kitchen with a manic look on his face, eyes wide as he looked from Sherlock to John. "Guys, I'm sorry, but I forgot to tell you -"

"No." Sherlock didn't even look at him, plucking the bottle of milk from the side and running some hot water, tipping the rancid liquid down the sink. "It's not the weekend and you haven't given me five days notice."

John looked between the housemates. "What?"

Greg leaned on the table, seemingly out of breath. "Come on, Sherlock, the last one wasn't so bad!"

"I'm relatively certain that someone had sex in my bedroom."

John and Greg shared a look, battling for the right to respond appropriately: they stared it out stubbornly until John eventually gave in, shaking his head. Let Greg be the bad guy.

"Yeah, well, at least _somebody_ is having sex in there."

To John's surprise, Sherlock simply smiled – a big smile, one with teeth and crinkly eyes... positively _menacing_. "Oh, come on, Greg," he said, voice so low it was almost a rumble, "we both know that John doesn't come here just to _study_ with me -"

"Oh, christ, shut up," Greg groaned, turning away momentarily and shaking his head hard as if to get rid of the images that no doubt were now painfully vivid in his imagination, "I don't want to know. I _don't_ want to know. No offence, John, you're a nice guy," he added, putting his hand out in a 'stop' gesture, "but I wouldn't want to imagine Sherlock shagging a fit woman let alone you or any other bloke."

John put both of his hands out in the same gesture, shaking his head equally as hard. "Yeah, Greg, you know we're not _actually_ a couple -"

"Quiet, sweetie, no need to be embarrassed." Sherlock winked at John, suddenly seeming to be in a remarkably good mood. "Greg's not blind to our raw, sexual tension."

"Fuck me," Greg muttered, turning on the spot as if trapped. "All right, fine, I'll make sure no one has sex in your room tonight, your room will be strictly _off limits_. Any other caveats?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "We can't do it, Greg. We're all _cooking_ together tonight."

"Oh, what? Cooking? But it's Thursday, it's Thai night -"

"Oh no, not now – it's _let's go to the supermarket and prevent early-onset heart problems_ night." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he said it. "I honestly don't know which idea I abhor more, another party barely a month after the last one or attempting to cook a half-decent meal with the two of you."

John frowned, lifting a finger in protest. "Sorry, but are you insinuating that _we_ would be the ones to make cooking a decent meal difficult?"

"Please, John, I'm a graduate chemist. If anyone can handle ingredients and a naked flame around here, it'll be me."

John folded his arms, leaning back against the counter. "When was the last time you cooked something, Sherlock?"

"That's hardly relevant," Sherlock snapped, whirling away from the useless cups of tea and striding over to the coat rack in the corner of the room, grabbing his long coat from its place and swinging it over his shoulder, slipping his arms in with one, seamless move. "Right, come on then, because either way we need to go to the bloody supermarket."

Greg brightened. "I can have the party?"

John hesitated awkwardly, hands shoved into his pockets as he stepped away from the kitchen side. "Well..."

Both pairs of eyes turned towards him.

"It's not that I don't think it's a good idea," he said quickly, widening his eyes to appear earnest about the possibility of a party, "it's just... I have two early seminars tomorrow and I should probably go to them. And if we have a party tonight – not that I'm saying it's _my_ party too, I know I don't live here -"

"You do _sort_ of live here now," Greg said with a shrug, not appearing to mind in the slightest. "You've bought more food this last week than me and Sherlock have."

"Don't encourage him, Greg," Sherlock muttered, doing up his coat rapidly with his long, dexterous fingers, "he'll think he can get away without paying anything towards the bills forever."

"My point _is_," John said somewhat testily, waving away Sherlock's mutterings with a hand, "I think if you're going to throw a party you should do it on a Friday. Make it a monthly tradition or something – y'know, Greg's awesome Friday night parties. That way no one can complain about seminars the next day and you can expect a bigger turn-out."

Greg appeared to be mulling this over; Sherlock was staring at John in disgust.

"Why would you give him ideas like that, John? You hate crowds just as much as I do! Or has your depression magically gone away _just in time_?"

Frowning, Greg looked from John to Sherlock, evidently confused. "Just in time? Just in time for what?"

John shot Sherlock an irritated glance before turning his attention to Greg, determined not to let the grumpy genius get to him. "I imagine Sherlock is referring to the fact that we both got our counselling referrals yesterday. I have my initial consultation on Monday, he's got his on Tuesday."

"John isn't particularly looking forward to it," Sherlock whispered _sotto voce_, "so he's probably going to have a miraculous recovery any day now."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"_You_ shut up. Stop telling Greg he can have a party once a month, he'll start getting ideas above his station."

Greg waved his arms. "Um, hello? I'm actually standing right he- wait, what do you mean 'above my station'? What's my station?"

"Oh god," John mumbled, rubbing his hand down his face. "Can we just make a decision so we can get to the supermarket and get some food? Otherwise we won't end up eating 'til late."

Sherlock's voice was barely audible. "We could always just order Thai -"

"_Sherlock -_"

"All right, guys, all right! I'll make the bloody decision, shall I?" Greg stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at them both with exasperated eyes. "Christ, you're like an old married couple..."

The two of them glared at him in harmony; he flinched, stepping backwards into the hall.

"Jeeeesus... all right, don't kill me, fucking hell... right. Right. I'll go with what Mummy John said -" He looked a John, big grin on his face – John began to advance on him, forcing him to take a few more steps backwards, almost tripping over his own feet, " - shit, all right, I meant that I'll throw the party tomorrow. We can just get food in and cook something tonight, quiet night in."

John was still glaring at Greg as he slipped his trainers on and threw on his black jacket; Sherlock stood by his side, casting quick glances down at him with a barely suppressed smirk. After a few more minutes of aimless bickering and both Greg and Sherlock disagreeing over whose taxi firm to call, they all ended up bundling into the back of a cab and on their way to the nearest supermarket, good-natured silence filling the space between them.

**-X-**

John strode into the kitchen with two plastic bags full of food in one hand, throwing his jacket onto the table with the other and shaking his head in almost embarrassed disbelief. "I am never, _ever_ going shopping with you again, Sherlock. _Never again._"

"Oh, calm down," Sherlock's voice came from the hallway, his tone obviously alluding to the idea that John was very much overreacting, "she wasn't that upset. She found it all rather funny in the end."

"No," Greg disagreed, walking into the kitchen with two bags of his own and his coat already off, "she was crying. That's not finding it funny, that's... well. Crying."

Pushing the sleeves of his shirt up his arms and walking over to where John was unpacking a bag full of fresh food, Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly and started putting the food away. "Crying, laughing... either way, at least she was over the shock of the incident."

John pointed a leek in Sherlock's direction, shaking it at him. "Just when I think I'm getting used to you..." He broke off, shaking his head again and turning to grab a knife to start cutting the vegetable up. "I must admit, it makes me feel at least _mildly_ grateful that you consider me an ally rather than an enemy, which is _clearly_ how you view everybody else in the universe who isn't within your little bubble of acceptance."

"Everybody is a potential enemy, John. Life's so much more..." Sherlock glanced up from putting the oven on, "...s_atisfying_ that way."

"You're a flipping madman."

"You'll come around to my way of thinking one day," Sherlock promised, leaning across John and plucking a grape from the punnet of fruit waiting to be put away in the fridge; he popped it into his mouth and flashed John a tiny grin, something that John couldn't help but respond to with his own small smile. "Life is _so_ dull without foes."

"Yeah, well, now they probably won't let you shop there again," Greg said sagely, pulling open the fridge and starting to put away the last bits of shopping. "So don't make too many enemies around here, all right? Otherwise you won't be able to the designated alcohol-getter anymore when I'm too wankered to walk in a straight line, you'll have pissed off too many shop-owners!"

Sherlock allowed his eyes to drift to the ceiling in impatience before flickering his gaze back down to the pack of uncooked chicken breasts in front of him. "I'll try to keep it in mind. Now, what is it I'm doing with these?"

John looked over to see what he was doing. "Where did you put the pesto and mascarpone?"

"I don't know, what did they look like?"

The shorter man sighed, moving around Greg to stand in front of the fridge; he reached in, grabbing the jar of green pesto and the soft cheese. "Like this. The green stuff is the pesto, the white stuff is the mascarpone."

"Right."

John looked up at him. "Do you remember what I said to do?"

"Yes."

"...really?"

Sherlock stared down at the food intently. "I know it had something to do with putting it in the oven. I'm sorry, John, I got distracted."

John rolled his eyes – he'd done that a lot at the supermarket. "No, you just couldn't be bothered to listen. Now look -" he grabbed a knife and cut open the pack of chicken breasts, reaching in and grabbing one, " - you slit it along the side, okay? Then put the mix of pesto and mascarpone -"

"I have to mix them together now?"

There was almost an endearing quality to the way Sherlock asked the question (he sounded genuinely concerned about the idea), enough that John's irritability turned to something softer and he found himself pulling the jar of pesto and the tub of mascarpone towards him. "I can do it if you want."

"No, no, I can do it," Sherlock said hastily, grabbing the jar and opening it. He put it down beside him and then reached for the mascarpone, almost cutting his hand on the knife that John was holding in the process. "Oh, no -"

"Be careful, all right?" John admonished, nudging the mascarpone over to him. "Now. Just get a little bowl and mix them together until it's a nice murky mess of greeny-white and then – are you watching? Right, once you've slit the chicken you just stuff the inside of the hole you made with the pesto and mascarpone mix. When you've done that, put them on the baking tray that Greg – Greg!" John raised his eyebrow at the man who was chowing down on an apple, watching as if it were a show rather than an activity he was supposed to be a part of. "Where's the greased baking tray?"

Greg dropped his apple on the side, hurriedly making his way over to the cupboard next to the oven and pulling out a large, deep baking tray. "Sorry, sorry, got hungry." He started to grease the tray with olive oil, glancing up at John every now and again to make sure he was doing it right – John nodded approvingly, a voice in the back of his head warning him that he was moving closer and closer to being 'Mummy John' with every bit of knowledge he held in the kitchen but not much caring. There was something oddly comforting about their little domesticated scene, even if it _was_ like directing two children.

Somehow, an hour later, they managed to pull together a dinner that was actually quite tasty. There had been a few moments of panic ("John, I forgot to switch the oven on at the socket." - "John, the chicken smells funny, is it supposed to smell like that?" - "John, the chicken is still pink, should I put it back in?" - "John, the little red light on the oven has gone out, I think I broke it.") and the chicken ended up a little overcooked, but generally speaking it was a dinner that was worth the time it took to make. Greg brought down his television from his bedroom and set it up on the coffee table, connecting up John's laptop to it via HDMI cable and putting on some sort of British black comedy which had both Greg and John chuckling through mouthfuls of food and even had Sherlock briefly smirking from time to time (before realising his fatal error and returning his facial features to a look of mild indifference). Sherlock only had half a chicken breast and a few mouthfuls of rice but, considering he had actually eaten a proper meal the day before, it was an impressive effort and made even better by his rave review of 'it wasn't entirely offensive on my pallet'.

By the time they'd started on a second movie, Greg very gallantly offering to do the washing up (a groan emitting from the kitchen upon his actually going out there and seeing the mess they'd left behind), John was slumped low on the sofa with his favourite grey blanket over him, eyes sleepy but a small content smile on his lips as his eyes followed the movements on the television screen; Sherlock was staring at the screen too, but his eyes were clearly unfocused, not at all into the film. They sat together alone for about ten minutes before Sherlock spoke, interrupting John's concentration of the film.

"I wanted to be a pirate."

John's tired eyes took a bit of cajoling before they managed to drift over to Sherlock's, meeting the glacial eyes of the man across from him with a glimmer of bewilderment. "Hmm? What?"

Sherlock looked away again, back at the screen. "When I was a child I wanted to be a pirate. In my head I was Captain William The Brave with my faithful first mate... Redbeard The Hairy."

John's sleep-desiring head took a while to process this, especially when the film was still trying to penetrate his thoughts and drag him back in; still, he focused hard on the words that Sherlock had spoken and, once he had absorbed them, he found himself staring at the young man like he was an entirely new species. Something like fondness – warm and faintly embarrassing, essentially – spread through his body to the point where a part of him urged his body to reach out and touch Sherlock's wrist, to somehow convey via some sort of physical affection how he was feeling after being told that utterly harmless, endearing bit of information. Naturally, of course, he suppressed this and merely settled for waiting for Sherlock to look back at him. When he did, John gave him a little grin.

"I'll bet you had all kinds of adventures."

Something flickered behind Sherlock's eyes – a wall, perhaps, a quick burst of desire to protect himself from someone who now knew something he considered to be personal information – but John met it head-on; he fought it out with his naturally open, honest gaze of mottled blue-brown, not wavering as he waited for Sherlock to respond, waiting for a reaction whether it would be positive or defensive. He considered over and over the idea of reaching out, literally, but luckily Sherlock finally offered him a response before he had a chance to embarrass himself.

"Mm. Maybe if you get me drunk enough one day I'll indulge you in a few stories."

John smiled sleepily. "I'm taking that as a challenge, y'know."

"Of course you are, John." Sherlock looked away. "I wouldn't expect anything less."


	20. Chapter 20

**Hollaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa! Here's a chapter! ENJOY IT!**

**Please note: The following includes quite a bit of swearing and some drinking, including drinking games. If that offends you, don't read it. :) It involves a real drinking game, though I've chosen which rules go where so it may not be accurate to any version that you know yourself. I'll supply the rules at the end of the next chapter!**

**Chapter Twenty**

The music was so loud in John's ears that he could barely hear whatever it was that Mike was shouting at him, in fact it was a testament to how much of an effort he was trying to make for his friend that he stayed and nodded intently at whatever he was saying rather than striding over to the iPod dock to turn down the pounding beats floating from the speakers. He sipped his drink – pick and mix punch, every time – and let his eyes wander as Mike shouted in his ear, taking in the room and the mass of people within it. Many of them were dancing, girls and guys alike, all of them with some sort of alcoholic beverage in their hands and at least seventy percent of them with the endgame clearly being to find someone to take back to their student room and never see again after the next morning. John had personally never seen the draw, unless you counted Sally Donovan, but he tended not to count her as she was a reaction-shag, a shag to get the girl he had once loved out of his system.

It wasn't really about desire at all.

He caught the sound of raucous laughter from the kitchen, Greg clearly having a great time with what John (correctly) assumed to be a group of mostly drunken girls; the man definitely had some sort of _something_ which appealed to girls, most likely his cheeky grin and undeniable good looks, though that wasn't to say he didn't have a decent personality. The truth was that Greg was surprisingly selfless, incredibly accepting and horizontally laid-back, three things that made him charming as fuck and always guaranteed to take a girl home (or keep her there as the case would be tonight). Poor Sherlock. The walls weren't too bad but they definitely weren't quite thick enough to keep the girls from making their presence known during sex. Sherlock had already inferred to John that he spent the times when Greg had a girl in his room downstairs instead in order to avoid having to listen to it, distracting himself with experiments and research.

_~Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~_

Speaking of Sherlock...

John pulled his phone from his pocket, raising a finger to the still-shouting Mike and reading the text quickly:

* * *

_**William:**_

_On a scale of one to ten, how inebriated are you at this moment in time?_

* * *

Sherlock, not one for the masses of people at parties, had struck a deal with both John and Greg: in exchange for one hour of his time being spent at the party he was allowed to spend the rest of it upstairs in his room, during which time he was not to be disturbed by anybody. He was also allowed to choose which hour he would spend downstairs. So far he had spent two and a half hours hiding and no time whatsoever within the company of other people.

_That depends... what's a 10?_

Mike grabbed his arm as he sent the text, pointing eagerly at someone over by the doorway. John followed his finger and saw a girl standing there clutching a plastic cup and looking nervous; she had mousey-blonde hair and was rather thin, carrying a subtle sort of prettiness that John could appreciate. She actually looked a little like Sarah. He nodded his appreciation to Mike.

"SHE'S THE ONE WHO GAVE ME HER NUMBER AT THE FIRST PARTY!" Mike had leaned in closer as if to whisper a secret, yet his yelled just as loud as he had been yelling before... still, at least John could hear him now. "WE'VE BEEN TEXTING LOADS AND SHE PROMISED SHE'D COME TONIGHT!"

"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?" John shouted back, trying for an encouraging smile. "GO DANCE WITH HER OR SOMETHING BEFORE SHE FINDS SOMEONE BETTER!"

_~Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz~_

Mike punched him on the shoulder a little too hard, grinning wildly at him. "I'LL SEE YOU LATER, THEN! OR MAYBE NOT!" He crossed his fingers, John laughing for his benefit and watching as his best friend made his way over to the girl; as soon as she spotted Mike her face lit up, a pleased smile filling her face and making her suddenly ten times more attractive – yes, Mike had found himself a decent one there. Lucky git. John was about as far away from getting close to a girl as... well. Maybe not Sherlock. That was a bit of an exaggeration.

Remembering the text message, he unlocked his screen:

* * *

_**William:**_

_Well, as you've managed to respond you're definitely not a ten just yet. I'm going to assume that after two and a half hours, one round of the Deadly Three and perhaps three cups of punch you're currently a... five. Possibly a six._

* * *

John rolled his eyes. Trust him to know exactly what he had consumed.

_I'm not even a 4. All right, maybe a 4. But not a 5, and definitely nowhere near a 6._

William's response was ridiculously quick:

* * *

_**William:**_

_We'll see about that._

* * *

Instantly John shoved his phone into his jeans pocket and began to weave his way around the dancing bodies, dodging the hands which tried to grab him and encourage him to join the masses, cheers and whoops of the friends he only seemed to have when they were drunk following him as he slipped past Mike (rather feverishly kissing the blonde girl in the doorway) and managed to manoeuvre himself into the hallway. He felt a small glimmer of triumph in his chest as he watched a very bored-looking Sherlock thank the people sitting on the stairs rather sarcastically for moving out of his way, the tall genius sighing quietly to himself before turning to face the living room and therefore John; their eyes met and John felt the alcohol force his lips into a genuine smile.

Sherlock did not smile back as he walked to meet him. "An entire hour?"

"Yes, that was the deal," John said firmly, jerking his head towards the kitchen and indicating that Sherlock should follow him. "And you have to drink _something_ alcoholic."

Sherlock stopped dead, narrowing his eyes at the back of John's head. "No. That was not part of the deal."

John turned. "Look at it this way, okay? You're about to spend an hour with people you care nothing about and you have to at least look vaguely interested in whatever they're saying -"

"That wasn't part of the deal either."

Sighing, John shrugged. "If you're not going to even act like you want to be here you might as well have stayed upstairs!"

Triumph flitted across Sherlock's face. "Ah, how right you are. Well, I'll just head back up -" He turned to leave but John had already anticipated his move, reaching out and grabbing Sherlock by the arm.

"Not so fast, Sherlock McSpeedy – we agreed an hour and you're going to give us an hour, all right?" He let go of Sherlock's arm as his friend turned back around and revealed a sulky expression so familiar that John couldn't help but have to suppress a grin. "We're going to go in there, have a few drinks and you're going to get buzzed enough that you might even enjoy yourself. Agreed?"

"Hmmph. Let's not exaggerate."

"Come on," he said encouragingly, indicating that now Sherlock had to go ahead of him, "you can try a cup of pick and mix punch and chat to me and Greg. It doesn't have to be as painful as you're expecting it to be."

**- X -**

Ten minutes later he realised his mistake: it was always going to be painful. Now Sherlock was giving him sidelong glances so murderous that he was genuinely surprised he hadn't been stabbed in the hip.

There were nine of them in all, nine young adults crammed around the kitchen table like sardines, each of them staring at the currently empty pint glass in the middle of the table as Greg spread out not one but _two_ packs of cards around it with a massive grin on his face; he'd been grinning like that since Sherlock had walked into the room. It was now obvious to John that this had been his plan all along: no matter what time Sherlock had descended the stairs, Greg would have initiated a drinking game and Sherlock would have to join it. Greg's plan was clearly to get Sherlock absolutely _wankered_.

"You swore, John," Sherlock muttered, the arm pressed up against John (they were sitting side-by-side, though with the amount of people trying to fit around the table they might as well have been sharing the same chair) tensing visibly beneath his deep purple shirt, "you swore we would never play drinking games together."

"I'm sorry, all right?" John wasn't sorry. He was tipsy enough that he actually found it all rather amusing. "It's Greg's fault, not mine, so stop glaring at me like that. It's only for another fifty minutes, then you can bugger off back upstairs and sulk some more."

Sherlock balked as someone placed an empty pint glass in front of him. "What's this for?"

"Well. It's a drinking game. You have to drink. What do you want?"

"Red wine."

"No," John said without hesitation, shaking his head. "No, if you drink wine you'll end up throwing up within half an hour."

"Ugh." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Water, then."

"Sherlock. You have to drink _alcohol_."

"Brandy?"

"Oh god," John moaned, grabbing Sherlock's glass for him and gesturing to the girl opposite him. "Could you pass me the vodka? And some lemonade?"

"I don't like vod-"

"You've never bloody had it," Greg intercepted as he passed John the spirit himself, grinning gleefully down at the curly-haired man, "so just give it a go, all right? You can barely taste it, you'll be fine."

Sherlock glanced from the glass that John was filling up for him to John's own cup. "What about him? He's only got a tiny cup, that's not fair."

"Calm down, he's getting a glass just as big as yours." As if to prove it, Greg slammed a glass full of something clear in front of John. "Sambuca and lemonade. Enjoy."

It was John's turn to shoot a murderous glance, this one aimed directly at Sherlock's smug-looking housemate. "How much sambuca did you put in this, Greg? I thought I said last time that under no circumstances are you to pour my drinks for me ever again."

"Chill out, mate, it's all good!"

"Doesn't answer my question..." John muttered, lifting the glass to his nose and giving it a sniff; good god, it was definitely at least a quarter full of alcohol. There was quarter of a pint of sambuca in this glass. Greg was trying to kill him. "Sherlock, I apologise in advance because I'm going to be absolutely hamm-" He turned, words trailing as he watched Sherlock drain his entire glass. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?!"

Sherlock looked at him as if he were stupid, his arm rubbing awkwardly against John's as he put the glass back down on the table, licking his lips. "There are a lot of people in the room, John, it's very warm in here. I was thirsty."

John did not miss the demonic bark of laughter from Greg – god, it was all planned. The man was insane. "You do realise there was alcohol in that glass?"

"You should be more concerned with the 35:65 ratio of sambuca to lemonade in _your_ glass rather than worrying about the 20:80 vodka to lemonade in mine, John."

John eyed his glass suspiciously. "35:65?"

"Almost definitely." Sherlock began refilling his own glass, sighing as he poured in the vodka. "This really is a complete waste of my time, you know."

"Just _try_ and have a good time."

"Very unlikely."

"RIGHT THEN!" Greg bellowed, extending his arms wide and grinning like a maniac down at the little crowd around the table. "I know for a fact we have some newbies at the table who've never played Ring of Fire before, so we _may_ have to be a little patient with some people and a bit pushy with others." He flashed a pointed look in Sherlock's direction. "If you've played before, great, just announce what your card means as you pick it up so that our newbies can start learning and... well, no, that's about it! Can't be arsed to be picky about who goes first so I'll just go..."

The table watched as he wedged himself between the two girls sitting opposite Sherlock and John and leaned forward, sliding a card out from the fan around the pint glass. He pulled it out with a flourish, turning it slowly to face him.

His eyes sparkled.

"Well, whaddya know? Eight! Eight, as most of us know, is _Mate_, which means that _I_ get to choose someone to take a drink. Hmmm." His index finger and thumb came to rest on his jaw, eyes swivelling around the circle as he pretended to think. "Whoooo shall I pick? _Who_ shall I _pick_?"

John knew where this was going.

Poor Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" Greg held the card up so that it faced the unimpressed-looking genius. "You're new to this: take a drink!"

"I assume a 'drink' is equal to a sip?" Sherlock asked no one in particular, picking up his glass, looking infinitely bored. "Very well, if I must..." He took the tiniest sip, grimacing as he did so.

Greg wasn't having any of it. "It's not a bloody cocktail, Sherlock. You take a gulp, not a sip."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips again. "Dear lord. This is fun, is it?"

John hid his grin behind his glass. "It will be if it carries on like this..."

"Hmm?" Sherlock finished his gulp, shuddering and putting the glass back on the table, turning his head slightly to the left to look at his friend. "What was that, John? You were mumbling, you know I can't stand it when you mumble."

"RIGHT!" Greg was clearly determined to keep things moving. "Lauren, you next." He grinned at the girl to his left, gesturing. "Go for it."

She slid a card out, looking at it before showing the rest of the table. "Ace. That's... the Dirty Pint, right?"

Greg nodded, the all-knowing drinking-game King. "For those who don't know, the Dirty Pint is the pint glass in the middle. Every time you pick up an Ace, you add some of _your_ drink to the glass. The person who picks out the last Ace at the end has to drink it."

As Lauren added some of her pink drink to the glass, Sherlock sighed and began to mutter to John. "I'm not drinking that. If I get the Ace, you have to drink it for me."

"Like _hell_ I am!"

The next card picked was a seven. The boy holding it quickly pointed to the ceiling. "Seven is _Heaven_!"

Everyone around the table quickly pointed their fingers to the ceiling, some laughter as the slightly more inebriated of the group took a little more time to realise what was going on; Sherlock's hands remained around his glass, brow furrowed, looking completely bemused.

Greg's grin grew so wide that John was moderately concerned it would fall off of his face. "Sherlock, you're the last one to point – take a drink!"

His frown deepened. "Excuse me?"

"Seven is _Heaven_ - if you pull out a seven everyone has to point to the ceiling and the last one to do it has to take a drink."

The noise Sherlock made in the back of his throat was so full of derision that John had to replay Greg's words in his head just to make sure he hadn't suggested shooting a kitten; nope, totally legit. Sherlock did not pick up his glass. "That is probably one of the most ridiculous things I've ever heard in my life, not owing just to the fact that Heaven is a construct-"

"Just take the drink, Sherlock," John interrupted, knowing that people would only put up with his smart-arse comments for so long, "the more you drink the less you'll care, trust me."

Sherlock's arm rubbed against his again as he lifted his glass. "I'm not sure I should be listening to you. You're already drunk."

"Take the bloody drink," Greg said impatiently, "and then you can be drunk together and save us a lot of hassle by looking after each other. Take the drink so we can get on with the game!"

Rolling his eyes in the most patronising way possible, Sherlock lifted the glass to his lips and took a few sips. Every pair of eyes watched closely, not looking away until they were each satisfied that they'd had enough to drink; Greg was the last to look away, motioning for the next person to go.

"All right, let's keep it going, yeah?"

The next two people went, revealing a King (all the guys had to take a gulp) and a Nine (_Rhyme_, where the person who selected the card had to say a rhyming couplet and each person around the circle had to add a line until someone paused for too long, at which point they had to take a drink) – it was unsurprising to John and Greg (and probably the rest of the circle) that Sherlock was the one to drop the ball on _Rhyme_, again proclaiming the rule to be ridiculous though at least this time he picked up his glass without having to be asked. All of the cards selected so far other than the Ace had led to Sherlock having to take a drink and, as John knew from experience, the drunker an individual became the harder it became to avoid the consequences. If Sherlock continued down the road he was heading down... well. He'd be fucked by the time he crawled up to his bedroom.

"I assume it's my turn now?" Sherlock's fingers fluttered over the cards, resting on one directly in front of them. "Do I just choose any?"

John nodded. "Go for it."

The genius slid a card from the masses, dragging it with his fingertips to the edge of the table and flipping it over only as it threatened to fall into his lap. He stared at it for a moment before shrugging, turning it around so that the rest of the group could see. "Ten. What does that mean?"

The entire table groaned. The guy next to John uttered a very emphatic 'fuck'.

"Ten is _Waterfall_," Greg said, shaking his head back and forth regretfully. "Ten is the card we all love to hate."

"Which means...?"

John took the card from him, staring at it mournfully. "Everyone has to drink their drink non-stop until you stop drinking yours."

A look of interest flickered over Sherlock's impassive face. "So... I drink my drink for as long as I like... and you all have to drink until I stop? What if someone stops before I do?"

The girl opposite Sherlock, Lauren, answered. "They have to finish their drink entirely."

A thrill of apprehension wrapped itself around John's spine as he caught out of the corner of his eye the tiny grin that flitted over Sherlock's full lips; oh, christ. The last thing anyone should do during a drinking game is give Sherlock power – no, scratch that, you should never give him power of _any _kind. But during a drinking game?

Greg met his eyes from across the table. Clearly he was thinking the same thing.

"Well then." Sherlock lifted his glass as if toasting, his eyes drifting quickly around the table and lingering momentarily on a now nervous-looking John: that tiny grin again, the thrill of apprehension shooting down the shorter man's spine. "Bottoms up, everyone."

So, they drank. Every person around the table raised their glasses to their lips, swallowing the tiniest amounts possible and watching each other intently to be aware of cheaters, of losers, eyes constantly swerving back to rest on Sherlock who was clearly not an idiot and had every intention of dragging it out for as long as possible. There was an almost-moan from John's left as a girl stared in panic at her near-empty glass, knowing as she did that if she ran out of drink she would lose and would have to force down a whole pint of an entirely new drink afterwards, an idea that would be terrifying to anyone considering they had barely been playing for longer than fifteen minutes; John felt a burst of sympathy but an even stronger burst of hope, seeing his still half-full glass and thinking for the first time that he might just make it -

_Warm fingertips brushed over his knee._

Half of his current mouthful sprayed out of his lips onto the cards and people in front of him before he could even process what had happened; he heard a vocalisation escape from his throat, something of a protest and a swearword, almost 'fuck, Sherlock' but closer to just wordless noise. The people in front of John shrieked and shielded themselves, shock and amusement travelling around the circle in a sort of Mexican wave as everyone started putting down their drinks and wiping their mouths, relief and mirth echoed in their laughter – John slammed the glass down on the table, hand flying up to cover his mouth as he started to cough, eyes watering as the sambuca lodged itself into every crevice in this throat and burning.

Beside him, Sherlock calmly put down his own drink and removed his hand from John's leg, placing it on the table in front of them.

Still coughing, John stared at the hand that had touched him.

"John, you absolute _cockmonkey_!" Greg cried, grabbing a bunch of napkins and rubbing them over his face to get rid of the lemonade-and-sambuca-mouthful that had been projected over him – funnily enough, it seemed that he had suffered the worst out of everyone. "Stop choking and finish your bloody drink, you absolute _arse_!"

Just about managing to control the coughing, John managed to croak out a series of words quietly to the man sitting beside him.

"You absolute fucking _bastard, _you did that so I would lose."

Sherlock's voice responded so quietly and in such a low voice that John had to strain to hear him. "If you insist on getting me drunk then I'm afraid that I have no choice but to exact revenge in whatever way I possibly can in such a limited situation. In this case it would appear I'm going to make you suffer via alcohol quite as much as I imagine I will."

John raised his eyes from the hand and found Sherlock's intense eyes fixed on him.

The tiny, dangerous grin flickered to life once more as Sherlock glanced away and to the cards in front of them, calm, serene even. When he spoke, it was in his normal voice once more, loud enough for everyone else to hear.

"Drink up, John. We've got a long game ahead of us."


	21. Chapter 21

**Apologies if the drinking games confused/confuse anyone. They are bloody confusing and I've suffered at the hands of this particular one many a time. Ugh. Anyway, enjoy this chapter! :D**

**Chapter Twenty-One**

A long game it was indeed.

The other players around the table soon caught on to Greg's master-plan and began allocating all of their _Mate_ cards to Sherlock, the dark-haired man seemingly indifferent as he swallowed gulp after gulp of vodka and lemonade, refilling his drink and continuing as if he were quite unaffected. To John's relief, Sherlock did not get the _Waterfall_ card again, managing to avoid Sherlock's cruel hand of destruction on his knee, though they all soon discovered Sherlock's disturbingly acute observation skills when the _Thumb Master_ card appeared multiple times; every time someone got the card and a few minutes subtly put their thumb on the table he was always the first one to notice, a roll of his eyes and continuing mutters of 'amateurs' on his lips alerting them all as he placed his own thumb on the table. Luckily it seemed that the girls were worst at this one, far more intoxicated than anyone else at the table and often erupting in fits of giggles every time one of them lost out and had to take a drink.

Unfortunately, John was already rather drunk and therefore vulnerable to failure; taking this joyfully into account, Greg held the number two aloft triumphantly and pointed directly at him as he announced:

"Two – _Link_. John, I'm linking you to Sherlock. For those who have no idea what that means, Sherlock will now have to take a drink whenever John does. Same goes for John whenever Sherlock has to take a drink. In other words," a big, drunken grin plastered itself over his face, "they are both 100% FUCKED."

Sherlock glanced at John, his low mutter falling into the space between them. "I'm holding you personally responsible if I end up vomiting tonight, John Watson."

John shook his head helplessly. "Blame Greg, not me! I swear, he has a fetish for inflicting drunken pain..."

"No." Sherlock allowed a tiny grin as he willingly took a sip of his drink, proof if any that he was actually a little drunk and no longer bothered that every drink took him closer to full inebriation. "It's more entertaining to blame you. The look of panic on your face is just priceless."

"Fuck off."

The next half an hour was deadly. Sherlock actually laughed when he extracted a three – _Me_ – and had to take a drink himself, taking obvious pleasure in John's deep groan as he too had to take a drink... John was starting to consider the idea that Sherlock was in fact a sadist, utterly intent to send him into oblivion with the sheer amount of alcohol he was consuming. The only positive that John could see so far was that after having to down his sambuca and lemonade for his first _Waterfall_ consequence he now had power over how much alcohol went into his drinks and was being very sparse indeed, the ratio leaning far more towards soft drink than spirit. Sherlock noticed this instantly, a little aside to him when everyone was distracted:

"Tut tut. I thought you enjoyed a challenge."

"I must do," John half-whispered back, smile twitching on his numb lips, "I'm your friend, aren't I?"

"That remains to be seen after tonight."

The two of them shared a grin.

A guy beside John pulled out the first Jack of the evening. "Jack! Ha! _New-_fucking_-Rule._"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow. "Which means...?"

The boy grinned at him openly, obviously completely and utterly wasted. "I get to come up with a rule that will hopefully ruin every single person around this table."

"Oh," Sherlock said, moderate interest flashing over his face, "I like that card. I hope I get that card."

"No," John moaned quietly, "no, never. Too much power."

"The new rule is..." The boy thought about it for a moment, leaning his chin on his glass. "Hmm. Oh! All right! Everyone has to add _"in my pants"_ to the end of every sentence they say. For example... I am rather fucked right now... _in my pants._"

A laugh echoed around the table, the girls in particular giggling to themselves at the potential double-meaning; Greg put his arm around the girl called Lauren, murmuring something to her that was no doubt utterly indecent and would likely lead to Sherlock spending the night downstairs. Sherlock did not miss it, rolling his pale blue-green eyes and taking a sip of his drink.

"And I assume the consequence for not doing so is having to take a drink, as usual?" He sighed. "How _original_."

Greg's entire face lit up with mirth as the rest of the table tittered at Sherlock's obvious ignorance. "Sherlock, you utter _twat_ – take a fucking drink and stick to the rules... _in my pants_."

Sherlock looked as if he'd eaten a stinging nettle. "I wasn't aware the rule had started _already_..."

Laughter around the table again, John groaning for what felt like the millionth time that day as he lifted his drink to his lips – damn the _Link _card, damn it to hell. "Sherlock, stop..." He grimaced. "_...in my pants._"

A vaguely amused smile flitted over the genius's features. "All right John, calm down... _in my pants_." The amusement quickly transformed into undisguised distaste. "This really is completely ridiculous, we're like bloody children..."

The whole table stared at him, practically holding their breath.

"..._in my pants._"

Both Sherlock and John took their two consequential drinks.

As the game continued, John began to discover something happening the more and more he had to drink. He of course had two people either side of him – a guy who was blatantly an ardent smoker on his left and, naturally, Sherlock on his right-hand side. Both of them were wedged in just as tightly as he was, the sides of their bodies pressed against his enough that after a while and enough alcohol it seemed as if they were simply an additional limb, no longer bothering him... or, at least, that was the effect the guy to his left was having. Disturbingly, the effect seemed to be reversed for the man on his right. The more alcohol John consumed, the burning sambuca leaving a seemingly permanent lick of heat down his chest at every sip, the more aware he was of Sherlock's body mashed against his, warm from the amount of bodies in one room and the increasing amount of alcohol that was coursing through both of their veins. Every time Sherlock moved his arm John felt a zing of friction from the material of Sherlock's shirt against his bare arm – he had wisely chosen to wear a simple black t-shirt that night, knowing how hot it would get in the little house – and became rather highly aware of the way his hairs reacted to the contact, standing on end for a few moments before settling once more over his skin.

As he laughed and sipped and groaned his way through the everlasting game, he found himself waiting for those movements. He caught himself staring at Sherlock's arm from time to time, once even glancing up to find Sherlock looking at him in a covert sideways glance, John's cheeks instantly on fire and his eyes darting away, a laugh bubbling from his throat as he threw himself into interacting with the game as enthusiastically as possible so as not to let on that he was feeling rather odd and actually finding the pressure of Sherlock's arm on his... well, sort of _nice. _What was even more concerning was that it didn't feel as if it were a weird sensation to have Sherlock so close and to actually enjoy it, the alcohol numbing his usual instincts to avoid all personal space invasions and instead inviting him to welcome it.

It had been so long since physical contact had been something enjoyable.

He threw his awkward drunken thoughts away from him as far as possible and concentrated as much as possible on the game instead, and god knew it was necessary – Sherlock had finally pulled a _Link_ card and started to exact his revenge on Greg, selecting him to be linked to John and therefore himself. After that the genius took no care whatsoever in avoiding consequences, somehow 'missing' the latest _Thumb-Master_ and pressing his lips together in false regret as he lifted his glass and stared over the rim at Greg's dismayed expression, taking a gulp and laughing throatily as Greg did the same – the murderous glances were all over the place now, especially once Greg realised Sherlock no longer cared about consequences and was playing merely to seek justice against the two friends who had forced him into the game in the first place. The others around the table were enjoying this so much that they began to create _New Rule's _just to screw over the three of them, insisting that along with _in my pants_ there was to be no eye-rolling and no sarcasmS.

As a Queen – _Women Drink – _surfaced, Sherlock spoke quietly so that only John would hear him.

"I think we can safely assume that you're currently at least a seven... _in my pants."_

John grunted, moving his hand until it knocked against Sherlock's glass. "Shut up and drink more, then, 'cos if I'm a seven then you have to at least be a four and that's obviously not fair _in my pants_."

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly, the movement again making the hairs on John's arm stand on end. "I'm just better at hiding it than you, _in my pants._" Since more rules had come into play the both of them had taken greater care at least to remember the initial one. "You have to remember, John, I haven't had the drinking experience that you have _in my pants._" He almost smirked. "I promise you that it's having a rather profound effect on me... _in my pants_."

Greg's voice floated across the table to them. "All right, you two, stop flirting with each other _in my pants_. I just got a six which, as we all know by now, is _Dare_. _In my pants_."

"So make us drink already," John said with a sigh, slowly lifting his glass to ready himself, "because apparently we haven't already done enough of that _in my pants_. Seriously, pick something else for a dare for once – you'll only damage yourself even more. _In my pants_."

Lauren leaned across to Greg, eyes sparkling as she whispered something into his ear with blatant glee; Sherlock's housemate leaned away from her slowly afterwards, a grin spreading over his lips as he nodded, looking as if Christmas had come early.

A fast mutter came from beside him, Sherlock's lips barely moving. "He's going to make us hold hands for the rest of the game. I won't be offended if you refuse."

A inexplicable flutter in John's stomach made him feel suddenly both confused and a little ill; he forced himself to remain casual, taking a small sip of his drink as he whispered back as subtly as possible. "Why do you say that?"

Sherlock too lifted his glass to his lips, masking their movement. "It hasn't escaped my notice how you've been reacting to our proximity, John. I merely assumed that holding hands would be even more uncomfortable for you."

The revelation that Sherlock was not as ignorant to the situation as John had hoped made the flutter in his stomach erupt into fully-fledged butterflies. He shook his head, head starting to spin as he tried to focus. "No, I – I meant why do you think he's going to make us do that? I haven't been... I'm not reacting..." He was struggling, no longer able to hide the fact that he was speaking – the alcohol was ridiculously potent in his veins, too potent. "I haven't reacted to anything."

"Raised body temperature," Sherlock murmured back, shifting slightly; the movement against John's arm was more pronounced and deliberate than it had been for the entirety of the evening. John looked quickly to his side, seeing Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye. _Shit_. "Pulse slightly erratic." Sherlock glanced away again, taking another calm sip of his drink. "Dilated pupils."

Without warning John was swept up in a memory of weeks previous:

"_Oh please, you've never felt better. Look at you, you're the epitome of 'jacked up' just from climbing through a window."_

"_That's fear, Sherlock, not enjoyment!"_

"_Liar. Elevated heart-rate, dilated pupils, rapid breathing -"_

"_All symptoms of fear."_

"_And enjoyment. Don't deny it, you feel more alive right now than you have since you started university. Possibly even before."_

"_Fear."_

"_Enjoyment."_

John gripped his glass tight in his hand, unable to grasp what was going on and not sure even in his drunken state that he wanted to.

He didn't have a chance to decide.

"All right boys," Greg said with a massive shit-eating grin, folding his arms as he leaned back and fixed his vengeful eyes on them both (when had he started blaming John for Sherlock's sadism?!), "Loz and I have decided that for the rest of the game you have to hold hands _in my pants_. We've agreed that if you break this dare at any point, you have to drink whatever concoction we put together for you without complaint, _in my pants_. If you refuse the dare now -" He hesitated for a moment, for the first time looking as if he wasn't too sure, " - well, this is Lauren's addendum, not mine, trust me on that... _in my pants._ If you refuse then you have to... kiss. _In my pants._"

John let go of his glass and began to shake his head violently, not having it, not one bit. "I'm not fucking kissing him, Greg, I am _not_ going to kiss Sherlock."

Sherlock muttered from his side. "_In my pants_."

"In my pants."

Greg shrugged helplessly, the girl beside him grinning so wickedly that for a moment John deduced that she was probably absolutely perfect for the asshole opposite them and that they should get married the next morning without argument. "Sorry, guys. She convinced me. _In my pants._"

"I'll bet she did," John mumbled, burying his face in his hands. "Christ alive. Thanks a lot, Sherlock, the gay rumours have finally come back to bite me on the arse."

"In my pa-"

"_In my fucking pants!"_

Lauren put her hands out in front of her, almost as if offering each option on each palm. "Well then, boys – which is it going to be, _in my pants?_"

Sherlock didn't even give John a chance to argue or choose, the sigh that escaped his lips revealing his signature impatience with all things pointless as per usual; he reached across with his left hand and placed it over the top the curled, tensed fist which rested on the table between them, his long fingers moving gently to lay still over John's smaller ones, the warmth from his large palm exerting just the smallest amount of pressure and feeling so incredibly inoffensive that all John could do was watch as it settled itself on top of his hand and then lay perfectly still.

He could not bring himself to look up.

"That's not holding hands," Lauren said with a snort, shaking her pretty head back and forth; she grabbed Greg's hand and laced her fingers with his, grasping it tightly and looking pointedly at the two hands opposite her, "_this_ is holding hands, _in my pants_."

Sherlock sighed again. "I wasn't aware that there was a universal standard. My hand is on his and our hands are therefore touching, you could in fact say that my hand, cupped as it is over John's, is _holding_ his. Can we simply agree to disagree and move on?" The next words he said were so perfectly enunciated that John could barely believe that the man beside him was drunk at all. "_In my pants_?"

The entire table stared at him. Greg eyed the two of them closely through his haze of inebriation, seemingly on the edge of something as his eyes began to narrow, his lips separating, mind looking as if it were going into overdrive... but he stopped himself. His lips closed, his eyes opened back up properly and he cleared his throat, bringing the attention back to him.

"All right gang, we're going to just assume that this counts, all right? _In my pants_. Keep an eye on them though, the minute their hands separate we'll make them a drink so bad their eyes'll water. _In my pants. _God, can we cancel out that rule any time soon?"

As the rest of the group laughed and resumed the game, Lauren taking a card, Sherlock glanced sideways at John. "Are you all right?"

John finally pulled his eyes off of the table and looked his friend in the eye; it was difficult, though this was mostly down to how suddenly the alcohol seemed to be affecting his vision. "Mm? Yes, of course I'm all right. Of course."

Sherlock's gaze did not move. "I had assumed you'd prefer this to their other consequence."

Suddenly something struck John, a truth that he hadn't actually considered until that moment – his brow creased, his head turning to face Sherlock properly as his mind started to clunk slowly. "Hang on, that's a point..."

"What is?"

"Never in your life have you followed through with something just because someone told you to." He waited to see if Sherlock would respond to that statement alone; he didn't. "And yet here you are, playing a drinking game _based_ on instructed consequences which not only has led to you being... well, _apparently_ drunk -"

"I assure you, I am rather intoxicated."

" - but also means that we are now holding hands because _Greg Lestrade_ told us to."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed the tiniest bit. "And?"

John stared at him incredulously, not at all paying attention to the game anymore. "What's it all about? What's in it for you?"

Without warning Sherlock turned his body to face John properly, legs moving to push roughly against his and face coming close enough that John could smell the lemonade, feel the heat of his breath and taste the vodka; Sherlock's wintry eyes did not move from his face as his knee slid between John's, shoulders bumping lightly against one another.

His whisper was hot against John's cheek.

"An hour and fifteen minutes ago you challenged me to get drunk and enjoy myself; naturally I was sceptical and unwilling yet I had made a deal with you to spend an hour at the party and therefore my only choices were to either detach myself from you and spend my time being rubbed against by strangers or to join you and Greg in a game so utterly ridiculous that I'm still somewhat amazed that I didn't leave fifteen minutes ago. Seeing as how you were so certain that enjoyment would come alongside inebriation I chose to go along with the rules of the game regardless of how idiotic they were, not to mention that this is most certainly the lesser of two evils and at least in this instance I can exact my revenge on the two of you for insisting I come downstairs and join this cesspit of a party when I would have been quite happy staying in my room for the entire evening."

John's mind was spinning. "Right, okay..."

"So in fact it makes no difference to me that I'm drunk and holding your hand, because it is still the lesser of two evils regardless of the consequences. Plus, naturally, you challenged me. Of course I had to go through with it."

John blinked slowly, his whole body feeling numb. "Mm."

Sherlock's eyes glittered. "But here's an interesting thought: you had nothing to prove whatsoever tonight, did you? You could've just had a few drinks, laughed with some of the strangers in the living room, refused a few consequences and walked away from the table without any regrets or sense of failure. You would have undoubtedly enjoyed yourself regardless."

He didn't understand. "Okay, but... I'm confused."

"You were clearly uncomfortable with our proximity tonight John, holding hands or not – the symptoms I pointed out to you earlier were clear as day and even you yourself were probably not unaware of them... in fact, from the way you kept looking at me, I'm almost certain that your heightened awareness covered both the sensations and the reactions, correct?" He did not wait for John to say either way. "So, back to an old argument: enjoyment or fear?"

John closed his eyes. "Neither."

Sherlock laughed quietly, breath warm and full over John's skin. "_Enjoyment_. But either way, that's neither here nor there, it's not entirely relevant. The point is that you could have left at any time if it were bothering you, yet you didn't, you waited for it, quite obviously too. Your glances weren't as subtle as you'd hoped. Then of course that leads us to now, with my hand on yours and barely any argument from you whatsoever let alone actually physically moving away... very interesting, very interesting indeed. So really, John, perhaps you should ask your question again but change it so that it's directed towards _yourself_."

Christ, he was too drunk for this. "Ask... what?"

"The question, John. The one you asked me. But ask it as if you were asking yourself."

John forced himself to think back, squinting his eyes and looking away until he could pull back the memory and realign the words on his tongue. "Oh."

"Go on then."

John licked his lips, a burst of nerves sparking in his stomach for reasons he could not even outline. "What's it all about? What's in it for... me?"

Sherlock's gaze darkened, fingers pressing down gently on John's. "You tell me."


	22. Chapter 22

**You may hate me for the anticlimax, but fear not: last night I made a plan of the Big Things that are coming in this fic and I CANNOT WAIT TO CARRY ON. I promise, it will all be so, so, so, so, so, so worth it. DON'T LEEEEEEEAVE MEEEEEEE!**

**Also, someone mentioned on another site their interest in having this printed as a book once it's finished... personally my mind is blown by this, but would it interest anyone else? If I did do it as a one-off sort of thing?**

**Anyhoo... ENJOY! Much love to you wonderful people!**

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

John lay in the dark of Sherlock and Greg's sitting room, blankets kicked off as his blood fought against the alcohol in his system and made him feel as if he were trying to sleep in a very dark sauna – god, he was hot. And drunk.

_What's it all about? What's in it for me?_

And confused.

Bloody Sherlock and all of his bloody drunken deducing and gazing and touching his knee, deliberately brushing against John's arm (which, as he had told John later, he had done on purpose _every time_ after he'd noticed the reaction it was getting), holding his hand and, finally, forcing him to ask himself a question that he didn't even have an answer to. And why would he have an answer to it? There was nothing to be gained from any of it. John had simply put up with it all because he was having fun with his friends and was actually enjoying watching Sherlock attempt to be sociable.

The way John saw it, there could be several possibilities afoot here: one, that Sherlock was a total and utter bastard and just wanted to play with John like a toy for his own amusement in revenge for making him get drunk and socialise; two, that Sherlock had consumed far too much alcohol and was (unimaginably) an affectionate drunk who had got carried away with himself and would wake up the next morning feeling like a complete arse; or three… that somehow Sherlock genuinely believed, for whatever reason, that John had feelings for him, feelings which stretched beyond the normal realms of friendship and into something completely and utterly _impossible._ What made it even more awkward was that _in the very least_ both Mycroft and Greg thought that something was going on between himself and Sherlock, and only because bloody Sherlock had been the one to start the whole charade in the first place… but John had gone along with it. He had gone along with it because he had seen how desperately Sherlock had initially needed to take Mycroft down a peg or two, his own personal feelings towards the oldest Holmes brother also being a fairly strong mitigating factor – at the time he was running so high on his anger that he'd had no issue with playing along.

He had questions for his friend. Luckily for John, Sherlock was sitting in the armchair next to him, waiting.

Unable to force himself to sit up for fear of making his head spin even more than it already was, John stared up at the ceiling above him and tried to form the right words to fall out of his mouth.

"Are they still having sex?"

"Yes."

Greg had taken Lauren upstairs half an hour before the last guests had started to leave. They'd been up there for two and a half hours. "Christ."

Sherlock's voice was slightly slurred in the darkness, seemingly more drunk than he had been during Ring of Fire; John supposed that the alcohol had finally caught up with him after drinking so much in such a short space of time. "Is that really what you were so desperate to ask me? I was under the impression that you had more to say, or at least that's what I assumed from all your fidgeting and huffing."

John huffed a little more. "I'm not huffing."

"Yes you are."

"All right, a bit."

He could hear the small smile in Sherlock's voice. "More than a bit."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the ticking of the clock in the dining room highlighting the space of time in which neither of them spoke; John couldn't tell if it was awkward or not. More frustratingly, he had no idea what Sherlock was thinking or what his motivations behind everything that evening had been and he knew that without actually asking aloud he would never know the answer. The question the man had asked him to ask himself – _what's in it for me? – _it was just too bloody confusing and full of the sort of insinuation that made John feel more than a little uncomfortable.

Was he just making a big deal out of absolutely nothing?

"You think _so_ loudly, John. Why don't you just ask me?"

John shifted slightly under the blankets, kicking them off of his feet. "Ask you what?"

Sherlock sighed. "Let's not do this. Just say what's on your mind so that we can both attempt to get some sleep. I've heard that a hangover is rather debilitating and I would rather try and get some rest before it happens."

Well, all right. He supposed it was now or never – quite literally. He knew himself too well. If he woke up the next day without having brought it up, they'd never talk about it and it would always be a source of oddness between them. Maybe it would just be better to clear the air. He took a deep breath.

"I don't have feelings for you, Sherlock."

There was a definite smirk in Sherlock's response. "Dear me, how my heart is broken."

John frowned in the darkness. "It's not funny, Sherlock, I'm being serious."

"Oh, I know."

"Then why are you laughing at me?"

"Because you felt the need to say it. I know that you don't have feelings for me, John, I'm not completely ignorant."

John was completely flummoxed. "I don't understand, when you asked me… or when I asked myself, _what's in it for me_… you were insinuating -"

"I was teasing you, John, not actually inferring that you have a romantic interest in me. I was merely playing out the last remnants of my revenge against you, nothing more than that."

"No, but..." He broke off, clutching at words; his head was starting to hurt and all of this made no sense whatsoever when considering Sherlock's deductions earlier. "All that stuff you said, about the... the enjoyment... pupils, fast heart-rate..."

"Oh, well," Sherlock said offhandedly, "that was all true."

John felt his stomach clench in discomfort. He tried to laugh it off, unsure of where this was heading. "I _was_ rather drunk, I suppose... you could've been anyone, it would have had the same effect." He forced a grin, more for himself than for Sherlock who wouldn't be able to see it in the darkness. "Haven't had sex for months..."

"You do know that you're making it even more awkward?"

The shorter man sighed, shutting his eyes and pressing his fingertips to his eyelids. "Yes, yes, I know, I _know,_ but you're being so... _cavalier_ about it! Like it doesn't matter that I -"

Sherlock interrupted him swiftly. "You're thinking about this from all the wrong perspectives. You have depression, John, your ability to function and think normally have been hugely impaired yet you're trying to analyse this situation as if it were _normal_. Your reaction – that is to say, your enjoyment – of our physical contact earlier is hardly going to be the same now as it would have been were you mentally sound."

"...are you saying I'm mentally _unsound_?"

"Lord." Sherlock's sigh was infinitely impatient, full of exasperation – it amazed John that he managed to keep up his winning personality even when intoxicated. "Focus for a moment, will you?"

"Fine," John mumbled, rolling his eyes. "Carry on."

"Thank you. Your depression so far has led you to alienate your friends to a certain extent, that much is obvious, and so far the only way that you seem even remotely comfortable in a social setting is to get obscenely drunk and therefore limit your brain function. The same, I would imagine, could be said for any physical relationship; you've shown no interest in pursuing anything remotely romantic which, if I'm not mistaken, you were in the process of considering before your depression became an affecting factor in your day-to-day activities."

John lay still for a moment. "How could you possibly know that?"

There was a sound of movement, probably a shrug. "When Mike Stamford is yelling at you from the room below mine it's difficult not to hear the words, 'so when are you going to ask out Mary'. It wasn't a difficult deduction to make after that."

John cleared his throat. "Mm. Course."

"So, when taking into consideration the sheer volume of alcohol you had and have in your system and the way in which it appears to lessen your depressive state, not forgetting that if you're completely honest with yourself you'll agree I am probably the closest thing you currently have to a relationship, it's not hard to understand why physical contact with me would be... welcome. Even, you could say... preferred."

"Preferred." John pressed his fingers into his eyelids again. "Right."

Sherlock's tone was still frustratingly matter-of-fact. "It's nothing to be ashamed of. Perfectly natural, really."

Slowly John shifted until he was lying on his side, arm dangling over the edge of the sofa. "And it really doesn't bother you." A statement more than a question.

"I'm well aware of the fact that were either of us sober we wouldn't even be having this conversation. We wouldn't have been in that situation and, if we _had_ been in such close proximity, you would have been actively making the effort to move away rather than inviting physical contact. It's far less to do with 'feelings' and far more to do with the fact that we are both rather inebriated or, as Greg would so poetically put it, absolutely _wankered_."

John's lips threatened to curve into a grin. "You might have a point. No... you _definitely_ have a point. Remind me again to stick to my promise of never playing drinking games with you again."

Sherlock's voice had the warmth of his signature tiny grin within it. "You have my word. As amusing as it's been to see you spiral into a pit of embarrassment and confusion I think it would be better for the both of us if you were to refrain from encouraging me to drink what now feels like my body-weight in vodka."

John snorted. "Couldn't agree more. Don't particularly relish the idea of having that form of revenge every time you're drunk. Got enough to be dealing with without you gaying up a drinking game just to get back at me."

"Mm."

The two of them sat quietly for a few minutes, the sound of the ticking clock joined only by the slight thumping noise coming from above them. John's lips twisted into a grimace. "Is it always this bad?"

"I tend to spend a lot of Friday and Saturday evenings down here; gives me some time to do my experiments and assignments in peace, though, so I withhold from complaining too often." A yawn, more muffled movement – stretching, perhaps? "I think I'd rather like to sleep now, if you're completely finished asking questions?"

Rubbing the heel of his palm over his face, John scooted a little farther down the sofa. "Yeah, no, sure, sleep." His hands patted awkwardly down the length of his body until he felt the corner of a blanket, yanking it so that it covered his legs – the heat was wearing off now, much like the badgering of his earlier thoughts. " D'you need a blanket? You can't really sleep on there, can you? I can move if you want to lay down..." He stopped. "Actually, scratch that last bit, probably not a good idea whilst I'm still drunk."

Again the room went quiet, quiet groaning and the clock ticking filling John's eardrums as he wondered hazily if perhaps Sherlock had already fallen asleep and thinking, none-too-clearly, that it was a bloody good idea and that sleep would be incredibly welcome to him at that moment. He fidgeted a little, moving his feet until they were pressed against the warm leather arm of the sofa and shifting his head until it lay comfortably on the edge of one of the cushions.

He was just drifting into a delightfully heavy sleep when a half-conscious murmur came from the armchair:

"Knowing my luck you'd be a cuddler."


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

After a deep but unsatisfying nights sleep, waking up to the sound of giggling in the kitchen (god he hoped that was Lauren and not Greg) and feeling as if somebody had punched him in the cranium with brass knuckles, John was quite prepared to admit that he had felt better. He found that every movement he made, even something as simple as unfurling his fingers to stretch out towards the coffee table for his phone, was like torture on his poor body; christ, he was dehydrated. His skin felt as if it had shrivelled and died overnight, sticking to his bones like papier mache. Ugh. His fingers clumsily wrapped themselves around his phone and pulled it towards him, bringing it closer until he held it above his face and he could switch the thing on to check the time.

* * *

11:18am. 4 New Messages.

_**Mike:**_

_JUST HAD SEX WITH REBECCCAA AHAHAHAHAHAHA BET U DIDN'T HAVE SEX_

* * *

_**Mike:**_

_Christ, I need my phone confiscated when I'm pissed. Sorry. Hope u had a good night. She's still here. We're going for breakfast._

* * *

_**William:**_

_You snore when you're drunk. This could be a problem. Gone back upstairs._

* * *

_**William:**_

_Leave before I come downstairs. I feel irrationally angry at the world and I'm blaming you and your vodka._

* * *

John blinked (his eyelids felt as if they were glued to his eyeballs, bloody hell) and locked his phone, groaning to himself as he pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes and wondered when his brain had been replaced by mush and mulch; today was not going to be pleasant, especially as the floorboards above him were creaking and Sherlock was almost _definitely_ getting up and he had yet to get out of the house. Quickly he tapped out a text:

_Can I at least get a drink first? I feel like I'm made of sand._

Five seconds later a bellow came from above:

"YOU HAVE NO ONE TO BLAME BUT YOURSELF, YOU BASTARD!" A groan of pain followed.

Well. At least that answered his question.

John gathered his things together and left the house without saying goodbye to either Greg or Lauren, blinking away the sheer horror of the sunshine and beginning the long walk back to campus.

**-X-**

The weekend passed with barely any contact from Sherlock; John was unsurprised and only slightly concerned. When the genius had eventually replied to one of his text messages it had been brief, insulting and still edged with the blatant suffering of a hungover man, pretty much informing him that were he ever to encourage Sherlock to drink anything other than water, wine or a single brandy again he would personally ensure that every good grade he managed to scrape from the self-proclaimed 'immense support' that Sherlock offered would be erased and changed on his record. John had known Sherlock long enough now to know that his threat would not be an empty one, talented as the man was at hacking into the school's academic system, so he replied with an equally brief and insulting affirmation that he would not ever encourage such a thing again, if only to avoid the sheer unpleasantness of the arsehole he had unleashed with such alcoholic beverages.

He didn't hear from Sherlock again until Sunday evening.

_~ Bing ~_

Putting down the course material he had been forcing himself to glance over (littered with red lines of writing from Sherlock, of course) John found himself feel oddly reminiscent as the sound of an instant message fell into his ear; it had been a while since they'd communicated via laptop. He pulled the desk chair with the laptop on it towards him, wibbling his finger on the mousepad until the screen awoke slowly, tetchily. He opened up the conversation window and read:

_**Holmes, W:** Phone is out of battery and charger is upstairs. Greg and his paramour are also upstairs._

_**Holmes, W: **What time is your appointment tomorrow?_

John felt a bubble of nervous apprehension pop in his stomach – he'd actually forgotten about the damned counselling appointment. Ugh.

_**Watson, J:** You know, most people use 'paramour' when there's a married person involved. Just saying._

_**Watson, J:** 11:30. You?_

_**Holmes, W:** Your mistake of course is assuming that I am 'most people'._

_**Holmes, W:** Tuesday at 2pm._

_**Watson, J:** Are you nervous?_

_**Holmes, W:** Don't be an idiot, John, there's nothing for me to be nervous about. Of course you're nervous, but that's perfectly natural._

_**Watson, J:** Why is it natural that I'm nervous and you're not?_

_**Holmes, W:** Because you actually intend on divulging personal details about your life and delving into the triggers for your depression which I expect will be very difficult and emotionally draining._

_**Holmes, W:** Whereas I intend to sit there and deduce their own issues until they realise they are speaking to someone highly superior to themselves._

_**Watson, J:** ...I hope you're joking._

_**Holmes, W:** I assure you, I'm not._

John sighed in exasperation; they'd made a deal!

_**Watson J:** You do realise that when I said for us to do this together I genuinely meant that we'd both have to make an effort?_

_**Watson, J: **We're doing this so that we can deal with our problems and triggers and actually come out of this feeling even a little more... normal._

_**Holmes, W:** Really, isn't it enough that I'm going?_

_**Watson, J:** No. It isn't._

_**Watson, J:** And I'm a little insulted that you think it's fair for me to break myself down for your peace of mind and not be willing to do the same for me._

_**Holmes, W:** I wasn't aware that you were doing this for me._

John's stomach twisted uncomfortably.

_**Holmes, W:** You should be doing this for your own peace of mind, not for mine. You should want to get better for yourself, not for my sake._

_**Watson, J:** Sorry. That wasn't what I meant. I didn't say it right._

_**Holmes, W:** Hmm._

_**Watson, J:** And, not to be a bastard about it, but don't you think that's exactly what you're doing this for?_

_**Holmes, W:** Be more specific._

He really didn't want to be. John wished he hadn't said anything.

_**Watson, J:** Forget it._

_**Holmes, W:** Can't. Tell me._

_**Watson, J:** No, it's nothing, I was just being a dick._

_**Holmes, W: **Regardless, you've said it now and I would rather prefer that you explained here and now rather than forcing me to either go upstairs and get my phone charger or have to come and confront you face-to-face._

_**Watson, J:** All right, calm down, it's not that big a deal, you don't have to come over here..._

_**Holmes, W:** You'd be surprised at how far I'd go to cease your irritating talent of being vague. So. Explain._

God, he was even more stubborn than John.

_**Watson, J:** Bloody hell. _

_**Watson, J:** The whole reason you're even getting counselling is because I asked you. You're not doing it because you think it's a good idea, you're doing it because I want you to._

_**Watson, J:** There. Happy?_

_**Holmes, W:** Why was that so difficult to say?_

He wasn't sure.

_**Watson, J:** You know it's true though._

_**Holmes, W:** All right... so tell me, John, why are you getting counselling if not to appease me? After all, I was the one to push the subject. Had I not I highly doubt that you would have sought out help on your own._

_**Watson, J:** That's because I don't NEED help._

_**Holmes, W:** Please, let's not have this argument again. _

_**Holmes, W:** Even you have admitted that if you stay this way for much longer you'll end up doing something very selfish and stupid._

_**Watson, J:** I've been feeling better._

_**Holmes, W:** No, you've been distracted. There's a difference._

_**Watson, J:** I could say the same about you. Made friends with any new criminals lately?_

_**Holmes, W:** You are infuriating._

_**Watson, J:** The feeling is reciprocated, believe me._

They both sat without typing for several moments before John gave in.

_**Watson, J:** Please do this._

_**Watson, J:** The way you're supposed to._

_**Watson, J:** Wouldn't you like to be able to get by without needing to break into buildings and making enemies?_

_**Holmes, W:** What a dull life that would be._

_**Holmes, W:** How utterly dull not to feel that rush whenever you desire it, to live life as ordinary people do, the same old thing day in and day out. _

_**Holmes, W:** I cannot fathom a life where things are the same every minute of every day._

_**Watson, J:** Then why are we friends?_

_**Watson, J:** I'm the same, all the time. I don't change._

_**Watson, J:** All those days and nights we've spent studying, eating, talking._

_**Watson, J:** Nothing changes there._

_**Watson, J:** Is our friendship dull to you? Are you going to get bored?_

Moments stretched where John thought that perhaps Sherlock wouldn't answer; he leaned back in his chair, watching, waiting for the little typing icon to flash.

Eventually it did.

_**Holmes, W:** You are infuriating. Again._

_**Watson, J:** Why?_

_**Holmes, W:** You seem utterly intent on our relationship coming to an end, so sure that you're a temporary addition._

_**Holmes, W: **You force me to feel things I absolutely have no need to feel._

An odd surge of nerves flooded John's brain temporarily, making his fingers tingle.

_**Watson, J:** I don't understand._

_**Holmes, W:** You should put that on a t-shirt._

_**Watson, J:** Sherlock._

_**Holmes, W:** I would really rather not explain._

_**Watson, J:** Why?_

_**Holmes, W:** Because I'm tired of repeating myself._

_**Watson, J:** Well, I'm tired of having to ask you to explain every little thing you say BECAUSE YOU'R BEING TOO VAGUE._

_**Watson, J:** Seriously, you complain to ME about being vague..._

_**Holmes, W:** No need for caps lock, John. _

_**Watson, J:** Fine. I give up. Stay vague._

_**Watson, J:** I'm gonna head off now._

_**Holmes, W:** Don't be ridiculous._

_**Watson, J:** Then don't be frustrating._

_**Holmes, W:** That's why we're friends, remember? Or had you forgotten?_

_**Watson, J:** kgjg eroghbeigbadf bkadf baojengajngaje b_

_**Holmes, W:** An interesting point. I'll remember that._

_**Watson, J:** What do I make you feel?!_

Well, that wasn't what he had meant to write. At all. Unless that was code for 'goodbye', anyway.

_**Holmes, W:** Sentiment._

_**Watson, J:** Why is that a problem?_

_**Holmes, W:** Irritated._

_**Holmes, W:** Annoyed._

_**Holmes, W:** Amused._

_**Holmes, W:** Condescending._

_**Holmes, W:** Confused._

_**Holmes, W:** Exasperated._

_**Watson, J:** Yes, all right, I get the point._

_**Holmes, W:** Frustrated._

_**Holmes, W:** Intelligent._

_**Holmes, W:** Infinitely right._

_**Watson, J: **One more negative word and I will come over there and hit you._

_**Holmes, W:** Warm._

John blinked three times before he accepted that he had read the word correctly. _Warm_. Almost as if on cue, a pool of heat filled his stomach, coming out of nowhere and making him feel vaguely awkward at its presence.

_**Watson, J:** Warm?_

_**Holmes, W:** You threatened me. I had to say something positive._

_**Holmes, W: **Though that doesn't take away from its accuracy, however reluctant I am to admit it._

_**Watson, J:** Warm, though... not exactly a positive word..._

_**Holmes, W:** Ugh._

_**Holmes, W:** You're never content, are you? Even when you get your own way, you're never happy._

_**Watson, J:** That's MY line._

_**Holmes, W:** Yes, John, warm. Warm._

_**Watson, J:** Oh, yes, because repeating it clears that right up._

_**Holmes, W:** You are insufferable._

_**Holmes, W:** I'm going now._

_**Watson, J:** No, we're still talking!_

_**Holmes, W:** Annoying, isn't it?_

_**Holmes, W:** I was, however, being genuine – it's Sunday._

_**Watson, J:** Ah, of course, Sunday is pizza night. Wish I could be there._

_**Holmes, W:** I'd say that we could save you a slice but unfortunately Greg's paramour is also here therefore I expect she'll be wanting your share._

_**Watson, J:** That'll be awkward. Those two and you._

_**Watson, J:** See, if I was there we could balance it out. Those two and us two._

_**Holmes, W:** Mm._

_**Holmes, W:** Though you'd be mildly disappointed I'm sure, with the outcome._

_**Watson, J:** ?_

_**Holmes, W:** Well, I'm hardly likely to put out on the first date, am I?_

_**Watson, J:** ...christ, Sherlock._

_**Watson, **J: Images that I don't need!_

_**Holmes, W:** At least they'll keep you distracted. Wouldn't want you getting nervous about tomorrow and finding yourself unable to sleep._

_**Watson, J:** And you think making me imagine... nope, no, not even gonna say it._

_**Holmes, W:** But you're distracted now, correct?_

_**Watson, J:** I would honestly rather think of the counselling session. _

_**Holmes, W:** Of course you would, John. Anything to avoid facing your blatant homosexuality._

_**Watson, J:** What the hell?_

_**Watson, J:** Okay, REALLY just... stop. Stop trying to distract me. Please._

_**Watson, J:** I'm deeply disturbed and I'm going to go and read some course material to stop my mind from just... no. No._

_**Holmes, W:** :P_

_**Watson, J:** NO._

_**Watson, J:** Go and eat your damned pizza._

_**Holmes, W:** Study hard. Try and get an early night._

_**Holmes, W:** Goodnight, John._

_Holmes, W is offline._

John pushed the laptop away and muttered to himself, picking up some of the papers strewn around him and muttering a little more.

Just over an hour later he found his eyelids beginning to droop, eyes feeling a little itchy and the words on the page in front of him getting a little blurry; he shuffled all of the papers together and shoved them messily into the large blue ring-binder at the end of his bed, pushing the folder onto the floor and pretty much forcing himself to stand up and walk over to the sink. After brushing his teeth, stripping off his clothes and giving himself a quick wash, he pulled on a clean t-shirt and a clean pair of boxers, walking over to the bed, switching off the light and allowing his body to collapse onto the fresh sheets (one good thing about not being at Well Place was being able to get his washing done). He practically rolled under the duvet-cover, snuggling into his pillow and rubbing his cheek lightly against the soft, fresh-smelling material.

His phone buzzed.

Reaching over and squinting his eyes against the harsh light, he read:

* * *

_**William**_

_Pizza night is a little peculiar without you here. Especially with Greg and Lauren kissing constantly and far too loudly. Is it not uncomfortable to kiss after eating such greasy food? I would imagine it to be rather too slippery. The texture would be all wrong._

* * *

John slowly text back, fingers sluggish as his body yearned for sleep.

_I'll be there for pizza night next week. I'll save you from the greasy kissing, don't worry._

A minute later:

* * *

_**William**_

_Get some sleep, John._

* * *

He didn't need telling twice.

**-X-**

Shit, he was running late. He was running so late. By the time he got to the Wyatt Building he was practically sweating from his insane journey there, his shin definitely bruised from smacking it onto the bloody bench that had come out of nowhere and his head starting to hurt from having to get up, get dressed and get to his introductory appointment within ten minutes. All in all it wasn't an auspicious start, yet John had to admit that at least because he was running late he hadn't been panicking about what he was going to say in there to whatever man or woman he found himself opposite. As a wise (arrogant, arsehole of a) man had once said to him, _every cloud as a silver lining_: apparently the silver lining today was that he didn't have time to um and ah and change his mind.

Speaking of the wise, arrogant arsehole -

"John." Sherlock came out of the building he had been about to burst into, holding the door open for him and nodding briefly. "You're three minutes late. I've been waiting."

Striding into the building and running his fingers through his hair, breathing hard and trying as subtly as possible to catch his breath, John cast a glance back at his friend. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock followed, letting the door swing closed behind him. "I was passing. I thought you might appreciate the distraction."

The smallest of grins flickered on John's face as he blew air out of his mouth up onto his forehead, trying to cool himself down. "As you can see, I took care of that for myself. Decided to only give myself ten minutes to get here."

"I can see that," Sherlock noted with a smirk. "The receptionist is practically chomping at the bit. Kept going on about how she asked you to get here five minutes early."

John glanced towards the woman at the desk, a woman whose eyebrows looked drawn on and raised very high indeed as she looked towards him. "Great. Thanks."

"I'll let you go," the genius said offhandedly, hands slipping into his pockets as he offered a tiny half-smile of what John supposed was support. "Good luck. I'd come and meet you afterwards but I have lectures until five. Dinner tonight?"

John nodded quickly. "Sure, I'll meet you at yours."

"Good. Well. I'll speak to you later." Sherlock gave him one last nod before turning, out of the building and out of sight so quickly and smoothly that John found his stomach twisting with the ardent want to just follow him wherever he was headed – the truth was that at that moment he'd go anywhere at all if he could just get away from this building and avoid the inevitable.

No such luck. A female voice drifted towards him, sweet but impatient. "Excuse me, are you John Watson?"

John turned on the spot, not quite meeting the gaze of the receptionist as he shuffled his feet awkwardly. "Yes, er... yes, that'd be me. Sorry I'm late."

As he walked towards her she reached under the desk and took out a clipboard on top of which lay the forms that he had previously filled out and sent to her. He cringed. That had been a month ago. He'd completely forgotten what he'd written. "He's waiting for you in room A2 – just down that corridor and second on the left. Take these in with you and give them to him when you get in there."

He took the forms meekly, nodding and turning without meeting her gaze even once. He clutched the clipboard in hands as he propelled himself forward towards the corridor she had pointed at, palms starting to sweat rather rapidly as he got closer and closer to room A2, the door with the little glass partition and the dark blue plaque announcing the room's title coming further and further into view until finally stood in front of it, heart pumping, dread weighing like a concrete boulder in his stomach as he stared at the plaque and waited for his body to unlock itself so that he could reach forward and knock.

Finally, through an immense strength he didn't even know he possessed, he managed it. He knocked lightly with his knuckles, not bothering to wait for an invitation before he pushed the handle down and pushed it open, hesitating as he popped his head around the corner of the door.

"Um... hi, I'm John. John Watson?" His eyes fastened on the man sitting behind the desk. "I'm sorry I'm late, I'm uh..." He moved further into the room. "I'm supposed to have a counselling session in here. Is that right? Am I in the right place?"

The man behind the desk stood up, dark eyes meeting John's unwaveringly and openly; his lips flickered instantly with a small but seemingly genuine smile as he stepped around to where John stood, keeping his gaze fixed on his throughout his movements. His whole demeanour was somehow comfortingly laid-back, white shirt tucked into what were clearly designer jeans and shoes perfectly polished but his gait so relaxed and open that John felt himself reacting instinctively as he returned the man's small smile. He watched the man walk slowly, steadily enough towards him as if to give John the upper hand to move should he want to, his arm reaching out as he got closer to extend an oddly delicate hand to him as he spoke in a quiet, entirely non-threatening voice:

"Don't worry about being late; time runs away with us all. Good to meet you, John."

John reached out with his own hand, taking the man's and shaking it firmly, briefly. "And you... er... I'm sorry, she didn't tell me your name – your receptionist, I mean."

The man's voice was all warmth and openness, his soft Irish accent settling pleasantly in the space between them.

"Absolutely no need to apologise, I should have introduced myself: Dr. James Moriarty. But please," his smile widened slightly, fingers squeezing his before letting go, gesturing towards the chair opposite the desk, "call me Jim."


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: A very, very short one after a very, very interrupted weekend. Hope it doesn't disappoint too much! Have a great week, everyone. **

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

"So, John." Dr. Moriarty – Jim – picked up the clipboard from the desk and began to flip casually through his notes. "I've had a look at your notes already and I think I have a pretty good grasp of why we're here, but..." He lowered it, meeting John's gaze. "If you don't mind, I'd like you to tell me."

John shifted awkwardly in the chair. "Tell you... why I'm here?"

Jim nodded, putting the clipboard down and leaning back on his chair. "If you wouldn't mind."

So they were going to jump straight in. Great. "Er... I have depression. Or, I think I have depression. I don't know. I haven't been to a doctor."

"Well," Jim said with a brief smile, "self-diagnosing isn't always the best way to go about it but at least it's led you here. You should know that taking this step, actively seeking help, it's a very good sign."

Fingers twisting in his lap, John looked away. "Well. Okay."

"You're not altogether convinced, are you?"

"Not entirely."

"So what led you here today? Why now? From what it says on your notes it seems as if you've been feeling this way for a while -" Jim picked up the clipboard again, scanning the page with his dark eyes, " - a good three months, if we take into consideration when you submitted your forms and where we are now. I assume as you're here in front of me that you still have these depressive feelings... but why today?"

John stared at the clipboard. "A... friend. He encouraged me."

Jim tilted his head slightly, intently staring at John as if trying to read his thoughts; it was very similar to the look that Sherlock gave him for the very same reason. "So... do you think you would have come here if it wasn't for this... friend?"

Shrugging, John met his gaze again. "I don't know. Probably not."

"Mmhm." The clipboard went back down on the desk. "So your friend thinks you need counselling but you don't. Yet you're still here." The intent stare was not letting up. "In my experience, John, people agree to do things for other people but only follow through with them if they have their own reasons for doing so."

"Well, I'm depressed," John said pointedly, spreading his hands out, "so that's probably my reason."

Jim smiled slightly. "You seem defensive."

"You -" John bit his tongue, willing himself to stay patient. "I'm sorry. It wasn't... it isn't an easy choice. Being here. I would rather try and deal with it on my own."

"That's perfectly understandable," the counsellor said calmly, spreading out his hands as John had done before. "It often feels like a sign of weakness, trying to seek out help. It makes us feel as if we can't be independent. Like we can't keep control over our own lives."

"Yes," John admitted, nodding slightly, "that sounds... accurate."

"But it's not weak, despite what you may have thought to yourself when alone." The intense gaze was back, dark eyes impartial, non-judgemental as they stared out at him from across the desk. "There's a quote from Bruce Lee which I think is quite relevant here – do you know of him?"

"He's an actor, isn't he?"

Jim nodded. "And a martial artist, brilliant guy. Love his films." That small smile again. "He said, '_to know oneself is to study oneself in action with another person_'. In other words, your actions and reactions to other people, what you say and do in their presence, they're what will bring you one step closer to truly knowing yourself. It's so easy in our lives, so busy and demanding, to forget to truly look at ourselves; the only thing most people really tend to do is consider how they're perceived by others and how that affects them as a reaction. You, on the other hand, seem to focus more on what you think of yourself _on your own_."

John attempted to think this through and came up with nothing. "So... what are you trying to say to me?"

Jim leaned forward across the desk. "If I'm right about you, John, and I hope you'll forgive me for making assumptions so early on, but I think that any time you spend alone you tend to analyse yourself too much, spend too much time being self-reflective. It makes you angry, makes you feel weak and out of control. I think that if we spend a little time in these sessions focusing on your actions and words towards other people you may find that you actually have a greater grasp of yourself in the company of others than you do on your own."

He was still drawing a blank. "I don't understand."

"It's all right. The more we talk and the more open you become, the closer you'll be to understanding what I mean. But that's unimportant anyway," he contradicted himself with a wave, "we're not here for me to give you my opinions of you. I want to hear what _you_ think of you."

John balked at the idea ."Right now?"

Jim grinned, a proper grin this time; it was so open, so friendly. It was slightly unnerving, especially after weeks of Sherlock and his changeable moods – or lack thereof of any mood. "No no, not now. We'll get there all in good time. This is really just an introductory session so that you can voice your thoughts and questions on what to expect, what you hope to gain from these sessions. As you know the university can only offer you eight appointments, though if you feel it's necessary afterwards you can always arrange to have more. Obviously you've started at a bit of an awkward time – term ends for you in two weeks, for the summer, correct?"

John had completely and utterly forgotten about it. He hadn't even made plans to go home yet. "Oh, christ. Yeah."

"So what I'm going to do is book you in for another four sessions before term ends – two next week and two the week after – and then we'll sort out the remaining four sessions when you get back. Does that sound acceptable to you?" Jim's smile became apologetic. "I know the idea of compacting what should be four weeks worth of appointments into two seems a bit much, but now that you've taken this step I think it's important to keep it up. Summer is a long old break and I wouldn't want you to feel like you haven't had any benefit at all from our time together..."

Great, just what John needed: high-intensity therapy sessions twice a week. "Sure. Whatever you think is best."

"Fantastic, fantastic." Sliding his chair over to his computer, Jim started clicking and typing. "So that'll be... Monday and Thursday of next week aaaaand..." he clicked and typed some more, "Monday and Wednesday the week after. Same time as today. Does that work for you?"

"Can't think of any reason why not."

Jim glanced at him. "Though I'm sure you're trying."

John gave a small nod. "I'm not going to pretend I'm looking forward to it. I'm sure you won't be offended if I say that I'm going to be dreading every minute."

Rolling his chair back to the centre of his desk, Jim steepled his fingers together and rested his chin lightly on top of them, casting his eyes over John for almost thirty seconds before he spoke. "Y'know, a lot of people feel that way when they come to counselling for the first time; honestly, I think it's the most natural reaction to it. Let's face it, it's telling someone you don't know the most intimate, personal details of your life and knowing that you have to place every inch of trust you have within this one, unknown person. It's putting yourself out there to be _burned_..." Something flickered behind Jim's eyes, something undefinable, "...and having to trust them implicitly not to spark the flame."

John could only nod - it had gone from vaguely uncomfortable to powerfully intense in the quickest of flashes, something he was only just starting to get used to within his friendship with a certain genius. He was out of his depth here.

"But I firmly believe, John, that if you give it a little time and if you just... risk it... you'll find that you come to look forward to these sessions. Well," Jim grinned, leaning back, the tension instantly bursting, "maybe not look forward to them, but at least approach them with a sense of relief. To offer you a complete cliché, this is a safe space for you. You can say whatever you like here and know that it won't go further than these four walls."

John's mouth was a little dry. "I... right. Yes. Okay, thanks."

"Anyway, look at me, rambling on!" Jim picked up a pen and shuffled the clipboard towards him, flipping to the last page and writing something down. "Did you have any questions for me? About anything at all, anything that might have crossed your mind."

His mind went blank. "Uh. I don't know. I don't think so. I, er... no. No, no questions. I think it's all... clear."

Jim nodded. "In that case, John, that's about all we need to do today. Like I said, today is just an introductory session, just a way of us making sure we both know what page we're on and where we're going to go from here."

John's eyebrows shot up. "What, that's it? I don't have to... I don't know, lie down and tell you about my childhood?"

A gentle laugh broke from Jim's lips; the man stood, shaking his head. "No, not today. Perhaps not _any_ day. Certainly you won't be lying down, and there may be no need at all to discuss your childhood. I won't push you for topics unless I think it's absolutely necessary – essentially the effort will be coming from you. You're here to talk to me, not be told what to say. You won't see any improvement if I'm feeding you lines to repeat back to me, after all."

John shot up into a standing position like a rocket on fire, relief coursing through his body at the idea that it was really that simple, that he wouldn't have to say another word for another week. "Oh, well then... thanks. I didn't realise it would be so... short."

"Don't get too excited," Jim said with a wink that felt slightly out of place, "as of next week your sessions go up to forty-five minutes a pop. It won't always be this easy." He walked around to John's side of the desk, extending his oddly delicate hand out again and offering John an open, warm smile; John quickly reached out with his own hand, grasping Jim's hand in his and shaking it firmly. "But you'll have two sessions next week to figure that out. Goodbye, John," his fingers squeezed John's again, dark eyes piercing, "and I look forward to seeing you again next week."


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: Here you are, my beautiful readers - one to make up for the tiny one I posted yesterday. Reviews, comments and love are all so appreciated, I can't even put it into words. Love to you all, always!**

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

"Eat your lasagne."

"No."

John pointed a fork threateningly towards his friend. "Eat it or I'll confiscate your cigarettes."

"I don't want to eat it. I don't like it."

Rolling his eyes and stabbing a piece of rigatoni far more passionately than was necessary, John shook his head in exasperation. "Then why did you order it?"

Sherlock shrugged, glancing to the side to stare out of the window. "I like _your_ lasagne. This tastes different."

John was torn between annoyance and amusement, something he was quite familiar with these days; he'd spent so much time with the Sherlock in the last month or so that it seemed those two were fast becoming his two primary emotions. "From what I remember, Sherlock, you said that my lasagne was 'mediocre and tasteless'. That wasn't exactly a compliment."

"It was constructive criticism. You should have taken it as kindly advice and taken it as a challenge. That was my intention."

"So…" John thought about it for a moment. "You were actually trying to encourage me to make it for you again?"

Sherlock turned back to his friend, irritated. "Well, yes. I would have thought it was obvious."

John stared at his friend incredulously. "No… no, that wasn't obvious. At all."

Shrugging again and plucking a lighter from his pocket, Sherlock began to click the flame to life in full view of the whole restaurant. John leaned over quickly and grabbed it from his fingers, slipping it in the top of his shirt pocket and narrowing his eyes; Sherlock reacted as expected, throwing himself back onto his chair and folding his arms tightly over his chest.

"I'm _bored_, John! Let's go and do something, anything!"

"Why is it that you always get bored whilst I'm trying to enjoy a nice meal? You were the one who wanted to eat out tonight, Sherlock. Why do you bother to ask me out if you don't plan on actually _eating_ something?" John violently stabbed a few more pieces of pasta, shoving them in his mouth and practically swallowing them without chewing; he'd learned quickly that if Sherlock was in one of these moods it was unlikely that he'd be there long enough to enjoy – or even finish – his meal. "We might as well have stayed at Well Place."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed ever so slightly. "Interesting way to phrase it."

John chewed frantically on a few more tubes of pasta. "What?"

"_Ask me out._" The taller man's lips twitched. "I didn't realise this was a date, John, I would have worn a nicer shirt if I'd known."

"Very funny," John muttered, lifting his glass of water and lemon to his lips and taking a sip. "Let's keep those sorts of comments for Mycroft and Greg, though I admire your dedication to method-acting."

"Oh, didn't you know?" Sherlock began to poke at his almost untouched lasagne with a fork. "Greg thinks we're not in a relationship now."

The phrasing was off; it took a moment for John to figure out why. "You mean Greg _knows_ we're not in a relationship now. _Knows._" He put his glass down and started to eat again, a little slower now that they seemed to be actually conversing rather than on the verge of leaving. "What changed?"

"He's actually not as unobservant as I first thought. He noticed how we were interacting during the drinking game on Friday and deduced that, due to your obvious discomfort and my apparent teasing, we aren't in a relationship." He began using the side of the fork to cut into the lasagne. "Needless to say I've managed to... _convince _him not to tell Mycroft."

John eyed his friend for a moment before slowly starting to eat again. "Right. Okay. Though, I have to ask…" He hesitated, not sure how to phrase it without sounding like an arse. "Is it really… _necessary_… to pretend anymore? Mycroft seems to be willing to put up with the idea of you having a friend now, and given that he's stopped being quite so insufferable recently I don't think we really need to keep up the act just to irritate him. You know? I'm sure you can see what I'm saying…"

Sherlock's eyes zeroed in on John's, intense as ever. "You think that we should just be honest with him?"

John nodded, relieved. "Yeah. Yeah, no point keeping the charade going when there's no need to exaggerate the situation anymore."

"Exaggerate the situation." Sherlock seemed to think on this for a moment. "I see. Yes, all right. I'll tell him."

Giving a genuine smile, John found himself relaxing a little more into his chair. "Good."

"Indeed. Are we going to talk about your counselling session yet?"

It had been almost an unspoken agreement between them that they wouldn't talk about it until John brought it up. Apparently Sherlock's patience had run out. "There's nothing really to say. He introduced himself, we sorted out my sessions for the next two weeks before term ends." He shrugged. "Not much else."

Sherlock looked away; John took it as a sign of begrudging respect of his privacy, which he appreciated. "Was he…" The curly-haired genius grimaced. "Nice?"

John's lips twitched at Sherlock's struggle. "It's not like it was speed-dating, Sherlock."

The look that flashed across Sherlock's pale eyes was odd; John couldn't quite identify it. It disappeared as quickly as it had come. "Quite right. Then did you at least find him acceptable to you as the means to an end of your depression?"

"I don't know. I didn't really go in there looking for a particular type of person. He was friendly enough, if that's the right word for it. A bit like you in some ways. Intense. Smiled a lot."

Sherlock shot him a sideways glance. "I don't smile a lot."

"I meant the intensity."

Once more Sherlock looked away, the usual dance of gazes that John still wasn't used to making him feel as if he couldn't quite keep up. The man was impossible to read sometimes. "I'm not intense, just focused."

"Well when you're focusing on me it _feels_ intense."

As soon as John said it he wished that he could take it back, knowing as he did far too late what would happen; almost as if reacting to the constant use of the word the energy around them shifted and sharpened, a contradictory mass of intensity both binding them and separating them in continuous, undulating waves. John had to take a few moments to recover before he could force his hand down mechanically to the plate in front of him, scooping up what essentially was just creamy sauce and putting the paltry mouthful between his lips, chewing despite not needing to, anything to distract himself. Sherlock had resumed his gaze upon John, a mild flicker of interest sparking behind his eyes as he watched the older man's pointless pretence to eat.

Eventually Sherlock spoke, his tone slightly unsure. "Am I being intense now?"

John did not allow himself to look up, knowing the effect it would have on the tension. "Yes."

Sherlock was for a few moments. "Does it… are you uncomfortable? Does it make you uncomfortable?"

John put down his fork and dragged his palm over his face roughly. They were really having this completely unnecessary conversation. In a dimly lit restaurant. With a bloody candle in the middle of the table (because apparently even if John and Sherlock _weren't_ on a date everybody else seemed to think that they were). It was difficult to think clearly with the heat and the tension and the warm food in his stomach. "I don't know, Sherlock." He looked down at his plate, fiddling with his cutlery. "It's not something I think about."

"You're not looking at me," Sherlock observed wryly, the heat of his gaze hot against John's discomfort, "so I assume that I _do_ make you uncomfortable." He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing infinitesimally. "We need to change that."

"No, we don't need to change anything," John said with a sigh, forcing himself to look up and at Sherlock as if it were no difficult feat. It disturbed him that it _was_ difficult. "It's just… like you said, you're focused. That's all. I'm just not used to people being so focused on me all the time."

"I'm not always focused on you."

"No," John responded patiently, determined to hold his own and be confident about it, "but when you _are_ it's not something I'm familiar with. You know what people are like, they don't make prolonged eye-contact or spend a substantial amount of time trying to read someone -"

"There's no trying involved, I can always read you."

John gritted his teeth slightly. "Right. Fine. My point is that most people are too busy focusing on themselves or what's going on around them to really _look_ at someone. Not everyone has x-ray vision, Sherlock. Not everyone looks at people the way that you do."

Sherlock kept his stare unwaveringly on him. "People."

John blinked. "Yes, people. Human beings."

For a while they simply sat staring at each other, John working hard not to look away and reveal his increasing discomfort and Sherlock seeming equally as intent, though likely not for the same reasons; the waiters bustled around them and took away their plates, the customers around them eating and talking and laughing like nothing was happening. Then again, John's mind said reasonably, nothing _was_ happening. Sherlock was just being intense and John, as ever, was overreacting.

Finally Sherlock seemed to have settled his thoughts or perhaps had made up his mind about something, John couldn't really tell – when could he ever tell? Placing his hands flat on the table, the taller man stood up without a word, pulling his coat from the back of his chair and swinging it over his shoulders and sliding it onto himself with a small sigh of contentment. There was no scarf today; the coat itself was unnecessary, it was warm enough outside not to warrant the need for extra layers… still, Sherlock seemed to be a package deal, him and his coat, and John wasn't going to tease him about it. John had a favourite pair of jeans after all.

Not even bothering to wait for the bill, Sherlock threw two twenties down on the table and turned. "Let's go."

As usual, John had no say in the decision and simply did what he always did: he stood, grabbing his own light jacket, and followed Sherlock out into the dark street.

**-X-**

John ducked around a huge hunk of metal seemingly sticking out of the side of a building, edging his way around the damp alley with shallow breaths, the smell so terrible he could barely breathe in without feeling the desperate urge to gag. Sherlock's voice carried back to him as the man effortlessly navigated his way through the narrow cesspit.

"Keep up, John. And keep an eye out. If someone comes up behind you here you can almost guarantee that they are not your friend."

Breathing out a sigh of frustration (and trying to ignore the small burst of adrenaline that had been sparked by Sherlock's warning), John made a small leap over a pool of something dark and sticky, glancing quickly behind him before returning his apprehensive gaze back to the pathway in front of him. Well, pathway was a bit of a stretch. Obstacle course was more accurate. "It might be helpful if you could tell me _where_ we're going, Sherlock. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy being taken through backstreets and questionable alleyways any day of the week, but…"

"I need to pick up a package from a friend."

John stumbled over a metal rod, throwing his hand out at just the wrong moment to regain his balance and having it connect searingly, painfully on a rusty something sticking out of the brick wall next to him; he inhaled quickly, hissing through his teeth as he pulled his wounded palm towards himself and tried to see the damage done. It was far too dark. The best he could do was grit his teeth, press his palm to his chest and hope for the best. "A package? What kind of package? And what kind of friend?"

Sherlock stopped at the end of the alley, waiting for John to catch up with him. "Just some information he's been collecting for me."

John repeated himself, the stinging gash on his hand beginning to throb. "What kind of friend?"

"Not the same kind as you."

"Yeah, well, I hardly thought they were your best friend." John finally came to stand beside Sherlock, still holding his hand to his chest. Sherlock looked down at it with a frown.

"What did you do?"

John pulled the hand away and glanced at it, shrugging. "It's nothing, don't worry."

Sherlock's eyes flickered down to his chest. "That's quite a bit of blood on your shirt. Do you want to go home? I can do this on my own."

Shaking his head, John attempted to subtly bring his hand back up to his shirt. "No, course I don't want to go home. I want to meet this _friend_ of yours. Not your drug dealer, is he?" He attempted to make his tone light, breezy, but his mind was suddenly very much considering the possibility that Sherlock was stupid enough to bring him along on a drugs collection.

Sherlock's responding glare was answer enough. "Do you really think I'd be foolish enough to take you with me? If I was picking up drugs, John, you'd be the last person I'd tell, let alone bring along for the hell of it."

He turned to continue walking, but John reached out with his uninjured hand and grabbed Sherlock's sleeve tightly within his fingers – it was highly reminiscent of the last time they had done something whilst fuelled with adrenaline and the irony of his lack of inhibitions coming hand in hand with the rush that only Sherlock seemed to be able to provide these days was not lost on him. "Don't say that."

Sherlock stopped; his shoulders rose and fell in a silent sigh, one that John did not miss. "Say _what_?"

John let go of the sleeve and stepped around the taller man until he could look Sherlock in the eyes. "If you ever are in a position where drugs are an option again, you have to tell me. You _have_ to." He was deadly serious and he hoped that Sherlock could see that. His lips set in a grim line. "I'm not kidding around, Sherlock, I will _kill_ you if you go behind my back to get heroin again, do you understand? It's not an option. It's never an option."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock went to move away again. "All right, no need to get all dramatic on me; you're worse than Mycro-"

"_Sherlock._" His voice echoed slightly in the darkness; John could feel the tension roll through his body like lightning, adding fuel to the adrenaline he was already experiencing and making him feel as if his skin was vibrating over his bones. "Don't joke. Don't pretend it's not a big deal. Just _don't_ keep me in the dark."

Silence fell for a brief moment, before a single word. "Fine."

"Really? Because -"

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted with an audible sigh, turning and slipping his hands into his coat pockets, "that's fine. I will tell you."

John squinted, not completely sure whether to trust him. "…okay. So we're clear?"

Sherlock nodded and motioned towards the open space of darkness in front of them. "Can we continue?"

John moved out of his way. "Yeah."

"And don't shout out my name like that again, if you don't mind," the ever-condescending genius spoke from above him, beginning his stride once more, "who knows who lurks in these parts? I wouldn't want any of my arch-enemies to know I'm here."

John couldn't help the snort that slipped out. "And you think _I'm_ dramatic."

"No, I _know_ you're dramatic. You just don't yet grasp the gravity of the effect my name can have within the underbelly of London."

"Because you're so well known down here…"

"Yes," Sherlock said shortly, rounding the corner and entering what seemed to be a long, dark tunnel. "I am."

The two of them walked in tense silence for at least a mile, John trying not to become slightly concerned that his hand hadn't stopped bleeding yet – the blood was starting to cool against his skin but that in itself was worrying enough considering it had soaked through the material he held it against and was now undoubtedly leaving a crimson smudge on his chest. He hadn't had a look at what he'd actually ripped the skin on, though it was probably likely to have been a nail or a screw or something similar; either way he was heavily risking an infection without proper cleaning and bandaging, and if the slow intensity of the throbbing was anything to go by it wouldn't take all that long to get into his system. He gritted his teeth, however, and said nothing. It went without saying that he shouldn't speak. Anything he said now would echo around the tunnel like he were speaking through a microphone.

Finally they stopped. John found himself starting to feel uncomfortably clammy, a tad lightheaded. His whisper was a little shaky. "Why have we stopped?"

Sherlock motioned in front of them. "He's here."

As if on cue, a figure stepped out of the shadows and began to make its way forward; it was a slow step, cautious, the bulky outline hesitant until they were about three metres away. John couldn't see any details bar the fact that it was obviously a man; the darkness shielded his face completely. He felt the tension start to roll over him again, his instinctual distrust and apprehension kicking in enough that when Sherlock moved to take a step forward he thrust his arm out, blocking him.

When Sherlock spoke, John didn't need to see his face to know that he was smirking. "Calm down, I've dealt with him before."

A voice came out of the darkness, gruff, suspicious. "Who else is wiv you?"

"A friend," Sherlock replied back quietly, just loud enough that the two men could hear him. "He's no threat to you."

"Yeah? Then why's he here?"

Sherlock pushed John's arm out of the way and took two steps forward. The man did not move. "Not for the reason you're thinking, Lewis. We were having dinner and time got away with us. He wouldn't be here otherwise."

The man started to cough, a deep and throaty hack which sounded undeniably wet. John felt his jaw tense as the man spat out something to his side before turning back to the two of them. "How do I know he's not armed?"

"For goodness sake," Sherlock said, his tone utterly bemused, "we've been working together for two years, why would I risk ruining that now? When there's so much more to do?"

"Huh." The man was clearly considering this. "Well if you don't mind, Shezza, I'm gonna have to have a little look myself. Can't risk it, you know. Lotta enemies."

Sherlock sighed. "If you must. James?" He turned, seemingly looking towards John. "Would you mind stepping to join us? Lewis here needs to make sure you're not carrying anything that could do him any damage."

It clicked instantly that Sherlock was being careful not to reveal his name – lucky, really, as any hesitation on John's part would no doubt cause further suspicion and possible harm to the both of them. He took his steps resolutely, walking until he reached the space between them. He extended his arms, knowing that his willingness would no doubt work in their favour.

The man called Lewis walked towards him. "Ah, he's a nice one, Shez. Follows orders. I can see why you like 'im." In the dim light John could just about make out a round, craggy face, scars marring what looked to be at least half of his left cheek. Adrenaline helping along nicely, John's mind quickly processed 'Shezza', 'Shez' and the disturbingly Mycroftesque comment on his ability to follow orders; his jaw clenched again, though he was unsure whether it was to stop him from laughing or stop him from denying his willingness. "Didn't know you 'ad a boyfriend."

"Well, I wouldn't -"

"We're not in a relationship," John intercepted shortly, keeping his voice as calm as possible as the man advanced upon him. "We're just friends."

A little sigh came from behind him; the man who was now directly in front of him stared openly into his face. "Yeah. Yeah. Didn't fink you were gay, Shez. Sorry if I offended ya."

"Not at all," Sherlock said smoothly, staying where he was. "It's not me you need to be worried about offending."

John gritted his teeth and said nothing. Lewis reached out with his hands and began patting him down, eyes scanning his form searchingly until he finally stopped touching the now incredibly tense pre-med student, eyes lingering on the dark stain against his shirt.

"You bumped into one of your friends already?"

Sherlock made a small noise in the back of his throat. "If that were the case, Lewis, I expect there'd be far more blood on James's person, don't you think?" The two of them laughed in tandem, and the laugh was so unfamiliar from Sherlock that John had to fight the urge not to turn and stare at him whilst Lewis was still so intently looking at him. "No, he cut his hand on the way here."

"That alleyway," Lewis said with a shake of his head, stepping back from John and motioning for Sherlock to move forward, "it's fucking dangerous, it is."

"Indeed." Sherlock came to stand beside John, the familiar scent of him making John's almost achingly tense muscles relax just the tiniest bit. "So. Do you have it?"

Lewis grinned, revealing several gold teeth and more than a few missing. "Course. Went to a bit of trouble for it, too."

It was clearly a hint. Sherlock reached into the inside-pocket of his coat and pulled out a brown envelope, extending it out. "As ever I hope that this token of my gratitude will cover any pains you went to get it, Lewis. You know I appreciate what you do for me."

"Heh," the man barked out a laugh, "yeah, I know. Cheers." He took the envelope within a dirty, meaty hand and shoved it unceremoniously in a pocket. "And here's yours."

John watched with curious eyes as the man named Lewis pulled out a considerably larger envelope from underneath his jacket, full of god knows what – John couldn't even hazard a guess. Sherlock took the envelope and carefully peeled the flap open, peering into its contents and giving a small, affirmative nod. "Thank you."

"No worries, Shezza, anytime. You know that. Anytime."

Sherlock gave the man a small smile. "Yes. No doubt you'll be hearing from me shortly."

Another bark of laughter, followed by more wet coughing; John had to force himself to remain where he stood, his odd sense of loyalty to Sherlock making him utterly determined not to embarrass his friend by unintentionally insulting Lewis. "Lovely, lovely. Sorry 'bout that," he pointed to his throat, shrugging, "comes and goes."

Sherlock eyed the man for a moment. "Have you been to a doctor yet?"

"Nah," Lewis said with a wave of his hand, shrugging it off as if it meant nothing. "The wife looks after me, you know. She's a good girl."

"Mm."

"You make sure you look after 'im as well, awright?" Lewis was talking to John now, another grin creasing the corners of his eyes as he jerked his head towards Sherlock. "Always getting 'imself into trouble. He could do with a pal to look out for 'im."

John nodded stiffly. "I certainly do my best."

A quiet laugh came from his side. Lewis looked between the two of them for a moment. "Awright. Well, you two take care gettin' back to town, yeah? Bad time of year to be 'anging around 'ere."

Sherlock reached out with a gloved hand – when had he put gloves on? – and nodded. "Take care, Lewis. I'll be in touch."

At that, both Sherlock and Lewis turned their backs on one another and began to walk in opposite directions, no further need to talk; John quickly took a few steps to catch up with his tall friend, keeping his mouth shut firmly until they reached the entrance to the alleyway once more before he finally allowed himself a moment to speak.

"Are you going to tell me what's in the envelope?"

Sherlock glanced down at him. "No."

Well. That was unsurprising. "Is it going to get you in trouble?"

The same quiet laugh rumbled in the back of Sherlock's throat as the man took longer strides and ended up in front of John as he had been before, the same grace and purpose pushing him forward through the myriad of objects in their way. "You say that like I'm not already in trouble."

John took a risk and began to practically jog to keep up, attempting to ignore the continuing dizziness and rapid breathlessness that was beginning to become more and more apparent. "Are you?"

Sherlock did not reply; instead he wound his way out of the alleyway without a single word, back through the streets that John would have never gone through in a million years had it not been for his seemingly unperturbed friend and only speaking once they were out onto a main road, lights almost shocking after so much time spent in darkness. "Are you feeling all right?"

John was struggling to keep up, breathless and dizzy and all kinds of not all right as he stumbled out onto the pavement; his hand was still tightly clutched to his heaving chest, his eyes closing and relishing the scent of clean air as he fought to keep himself upright. "Fine. I'm fine."

With a roll of his eyes and a flick of his coat, Sherlock was at John's side in a mere moment. "Lying won't get you anywhere, you're terrible at it. Show me."

John shook his head, nausea beginning to creep into the crevices of his stomach. "I'm fine, Sherlock, really."

"_Show_ me." When John did not respond quickly enough, Sherlock's hand came from out of nowhere as slender fingers found their way to his wrist, wrapping themselves around it and prying it none-too-gently from its place. John fought against it weakly, pathetically, but with a final tug Sherlock brought the hand out into the open and turned it over, eyes scanning the wound.

His entire palm was smothered in drying blood, all the way down to his wrist.

"Sherlock…"

"Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?" Sherlock's voice was low, demanding. "You should have said something, we could have made a bandage and stopped the flow far better than you managed to – look at yourself, your shirt is _ruined_."

John's voice was ridiculously quiet, almost pleading. "Sherlock -"

Sherlock's grasp on his wrist tightened, though John was fairly certain through his haze of dizziness that the genius was unaware of it. "It's going to get infected, there's no doubt about it. I shouldn't have taken you with me, I should have known that you'd end up getting yourself hurt." Sherlock raised his other hand, fingertips pressing around the wound in a light touch that was almost painfully in contrast with the grip on John's wrist. "Does that hurt? Does it feel tender?"

John could hear an odd roaring noise in his ears. "I… Sherlock…"

Icy eyes travelled rapidly over his face, the intensity almost overwhelming. "You're pale as a sheet… that's it, we're getting a cab and taking to a hospital, you need to see a doctor -"

It was too much - John felt his body give way to the roaring and the dizziness as he began to crumple in on himself, muscles giving out as his shoulder made direct contact with Sherlock's chest; for a moment he was certain he was going to fall, the pavement coming at him too fast to stop himself but just as he closed his eyes to face the impact, out of nowhere a pair of hands were gripping him tight by his upper arms and pulling him against something warm, solid. The scent of Sherlock wrapped around him and the feel of an expensive, soft shirt brushed against his cheek as a low, deep voice rolled and vibrated against him – the concern, the urgency… it was utterly unfamiliar.

"Hold on, John, I've got you – lean on me, lean on me. I'll hail a cab, just wait a moment -"

"No," John murmured weakly, trying his best to regain his footing, "no, I don't want to."

Sherlock's grip tightened, his voice becoming… angry? Irritated? "You need a doctor, you might need blood -"

"No. Take me home."

"I'm not leaving you to deal with this yourself, John!"

John forced himself to raise his head, heavy as it was, raising it just enough that he could direct his words up to his friend so that he would hear and understand his meaning –

"Take me home with you. You take care of it. You take care of me."

Sherlock's body froze. A car pulled up beside them, a cabbie asking the question. John waited.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

"All right, John. All… all right. I'll take care of you." He shifted slightly, directing his next words to the man in the car. "221 Well Place. Quick as you can."


	26. Chapter 26

**A/N: BAM! HAVE ANOTHER ONE!**

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

The touch was so light he wasn't sure it was really there; it felt almost other-worldly, so gentle and warm and comforting even though the scent and pain alongside didn't really fit any of those words. Well. Maybe warm. Warm was familiar. Warm was constant. Warm was something John knew he could associate at least with the scent, though the pain... no, it wasn't really pain, more of a constant thrumming, a continuous throb that seemed to travel all the way from his palm and up his arm to his shoulder. It was uncomfortable. He didn't really want it anymore. No, definitely not. He felt a groggy urge to flex his fingers, that might make it better – he felt his muscles twitch, more discomfort, felt himself try to squeeze his hand into a fist...

More warmth – warm fingers, gently wrapping themselves around his wrist.

"No, John. Stop that."

A deep, recognisable voice. John shifted slightly, suddenly aware that he was lying down. His eyes were closed, too. Hm.

"Stop trying to move your fingers, you're going to open the wound again."

The fingers around his wrist moved, shifting up to press their tips lightly against the palm which felt as it were on fire.

"John."

He gave up on the fist, groaning quietly as he moved his head to one side and tried to open his eyes. His eyelids were so _heavy_. Why were they so heavy? He was lying down... all right, but why was he lying down?

"Can you hear me? John, can you open your eyes?"

No, his eyelids were too heavy. He felt as if he should apologise. The voice sounded very concerned.

The voice was also very close. Why was it so close? "I've cleaned the cut as best I can, I just need to bandage it now. Keep still."

John obeyed, letting his muscles relax into the soft leather – ah, this leather, this was familiar too. He'd slept here before. Well Place. Sherlock's home. _Sherlock_. Ah. That made sense. Sherlock's voice, Sherlock's scent, Sherlock's hands. He suddenly wanted to open his eyes again. He tried. A flicker of movement to his left, a blurred figure. It was dark, though. That was a relief. His head was hurting. Was it possible for his hand to hurt at the same time as his head? He was sure that was impossible, you could only focus on one pain at a time – then again, maybe the figure who he remembered now was Sherlock was dealing with the pain in his hand for him. That didn't make sense. His hand still hurt. The pain wasn't going away. But his head hurt too.

It was a bit of a mess.

"Let me know if it's too tight."

Oh, that's right, there was a new sensation – material wrapping itself around his hand, a grip on his wrist again that was much firmer than before but not a bad thing; there was actually something about the solidity of it that was welcome, a comfort. He remembered now the dark alleyway and the stabbing pain of something sharp dragging over his skin – a sharp intake of breath as he recalled it all too vividly, and what was that? A thumb shifted and moved gently over his wrist, _that_ was nice, just as comforting as the firm grasp but even better because it overturned the gasp and turned it into a small sigh. It happened once more, a little more pronounced and over a wider area of skin which made it even more pleasant; it was almost distracting, taking away from the throbbing or at least giving him the option of thinking about the caress rather than the ache. He hummed low in his throat and then felt a flush of embarrassment rise quickly to his already warm face, something telling him that responding like that was a bit odd and not really what he should be doing when it was – ah, yes, Sherlock's thumb, Sherlock comforting him.

The tiniest pulse of adrenaline finally forced his eyes open.

His vision was hazy but he could see perfectly well enough to note how the tall genius was kneeling beside him, head bent to watch his own hands moving over the bandage he was wrapping around John's injured hand; he looked very focused, utterly determined. His face was impassive but there was something behind the look that John hadn't really seen before – or had he? In the restaurant, the flash in Sherlock's eyes after John had joked about Jim and speed-dating. It was like that. Fierce. Yes, fierce, but not just that. His mind fought against the fog and tried to find the right word but it was hiding just out of range so that he could not quite reach out and pull it down to rest on his tongue, which was frustrating when he was genuinely certain that it was an important thought to process -

The gaze that had been so heavily focused on his hand flickered up to stare right back at him.

_Possessive._

That was the word.

Slowly Sherlock tucked the edge of the bandage into the layers beneath it, not looking away from John's hazed, confused eyes as he did so.

His voice was a brief murmur.

"Hello, John."

The candles on the fireplace were lit. Had Sherlock lit those candles? John tried to talk but his lips felt cracked and uncomfortable, and his throat was so dry it was as if he'd swallowed sand. Sherlock leaned away for a moment – the panic that shot through John was so out of place – and then came back, his hand wrapped around a glass that had blissful little droplets of condensation running down its side which fell to the carpet – one onto Sherlock's leg, too – as he brought it closer to John's face. A black straw poked out of the top.

"I can hold it if you want to have a sip."

Without hesitating John separated his lips and waited for Sherlock to move the glass close enough, his head tilting forward to catch the edge of the straw against his dry lower lip, shifting until he could take a pull on the end of it and almost groaning from relief as water surged gently into his parched mouth and down his throat. He started drinking quickly, utterly enamoured with the sensation of water soothing the rawness away, only realising he should slow down when he caught the slight narrowing of Sherlock's continued gaze from the corner of his eyes. He stopped, letting the straw fall from his mouth.

Sherlock leaned back, eyes staring searchingly at his friend. "How are you feeling?"

John's tongue darted out to rid his lips of excess moisture, letting his head sink back down into the pillows beneath him. A cloud of Sherlock's scent washed up and over him – so they were Sherlock's pillows. Sherlock had gone upstairs and got him his own pillows. He pushed out sound from the recesses of his throat and winced slightly at the weak, gravelly tone which escaped from between his lips. "Been better."

The thumb shifted lightly against his wrist again – it was still there, John hadn't realised – but it was clear to the both of them that this wasn't an intentional move, rather an instinctual one; the tension predictably rocketed, John's face flooding with heat again and his insides doing an odd tremble as Sherlock's hand tensed against John's skin – he could almost hear the silent, racing war in Sherlock's head as he tried to ascertain the situation and deal with it accordingly, difficult when even John had no idea what was going on and what to do.

Still it came as no surprise when Sherlock let go of his wrist and stood, all grace and fluidity as he moved away from his weak friend to stand on the other side of the coffee table. "You need to get changed," Sherlock's suddenly brusque voice commanded, the sound undeniably too loud in the quiet room – where was Greg? "I brought an old shirt down, it's probably too big but it's the smallest one I have. I'll get you a bowl of water and a cloth for you to wipe yourself down with as I imagine you can't make it to the bathroom."

"Sherlock -"

The man was gone in an instant, not stopping his purposeful stride to the kitchen; John shut his eyes momentarily, his head a mass of pain and bewilderment as he tried to make sense of everything. In the end it was easier to just focus on the pulsing ache in his hand and ignore the rest of it, allowing himself a moment to mentally prepare himself for the strength he would need to get up in order to take off his bloodstained shirt – christ, that really _was_ a lot of blood – and finding himself utterly exhausted just from having to think about it. The sound of water running in the kitchen and the quiet opening and closing of cupboard pushed him into action, manoeuvring his elbow until he could lean his weight against it to shift himself into a sitting position. He just about managed it, letting himself relax for a few moments against the back of the sofa to drag enough energy in order to lift his good hand to the buttons on the front of his shirt, a wave of frustration washing over him as he realised instantly that this would be near impossible.

He'd managed to get one button undone by the time Sherlock walked in with the bowl of steaming water and a white flannel. The look on his face was back to his standard impassive.

"The only clean flannel I could find was white. I'll just throw it away afterwards."

John's fingers fumbled awkwardly over the second button. "Sorry."

Sherlock's head did an odd little jerk. "It doesn't matter." He crossed the room and placed the bowl on the coffee table, stepping away instantly and back over to the doorway. "I'll give you some privacy to do what you need to do. You should probably try to get some more rest afterwards; Greg is out all evening so he won't disturb you."

John tried to force a smile as his fingers slipped over the button and he had to start again. "What about you?"

Sherlock's eyes darted between John's fumbling and the stairs. "I'll be upstairs. I have a lot of work to do."

"Right." John got the button half out of its hole before it slipped back in, a wave of frustration crashing over him. "_Damn_ it."

Left hand twitching at his side, Sherlock opened his lips as if to speak; he hesitated, then gave the tiniest shake of his head. "Well. I'll leave you to it, then."

John gave a tiny huff of irritation as his hand continued to stumble over the button, rolling his eyes to the ceiling before giving in and lifting his injured left hand to the shirt, hissing quietly as he bent his fingers and felt the tightness of the bandage press over the throbbing wound. "All right."

"No," Sherlock said shortly, taking a step towards John; for a moment John thought he was disagreeing with his acquiescence. "You can't use that hand. Do it with your right hand."

"I _can't_," John replied stiffly, determinedly moving his aching left hand to grasp the button, "it's useless trying to do it with one hand -"

"You'll open the wound again!"

"Well I'm _tired_, Sherlock, and I can't do it with one hand!" John's eyes flew up to meet Sherlock's, irritation at his incapability to do such a simple task flowing freely into the room, making no effort to stop it. "You could help me, you know!"

Sherlock stared at him. "Help you." It wasn't a question. "As in -"

John was beyond caring about what was normal or appropriate. His hand and head were thumping. "Yes. Please. I am exhausted and fucking useless right now, so please, _please_, just help me. Please."

An entire ten seconds passed before finally Sherlock's jaw visibly tightened; he nodded sharply, taking the steps back to his best friend's side. "Fine. Move your hands."

John did as he was told, leaning his head back against edge of the sofa and closing his eyes. "Thank you."

The sound of movement filtered through the air as Sherlock moved to kneel beside him, the tension considerably more uncomfortable than before and fuelled almost entirely by their mutual irritation at each other; not that there was any decent reason to be irritated at one another. At all. There was no logic behind it. Then again, logic rarely featured in the reasons behind anything about their relationship.

The warmth of Sherlock's body leaned awkwardly against John's legs. "I'm going to start now."

"Okay."

The pressure of fingertips against the button of John's shirt was still surprising even though he was expecting it, his head laughing cruelly at him as it reminded him that it was Sherlock who was now beginning to deftly release them from their confines; it was impossible to forget this detail as the hands trailed down, little brushes of air against John's increasingly bared skin making him want to react with movement but his resolution to not allow this situation to become something awkward keeping him still. Traitorously his mind reminded him that he hadn't been undressed in months by any hand other than his own. _No_. Thoughts like that weren't acceptable. He didn't know what was going through Sherlock's mind as he unbuttoned the rest of them in silence but he was pretty damned sure the young man probably wasn't nearly as aware of the weirdness as he was, and that in itself should have been enough to cease his brain from its irritating taunts. As the last button fell from its hole and the shirt sat half-open on his chest, John allowed himself a slow breath out and forced his eyes to open.

Sherlock was already reaching towards the bowl, jaw still tense as he dipped the flannel into the water and wrung it out with his large hands; he turned back and did not look up at John as he lifted his hands and pushed the material of the ruined shirt aside to reveal the brown mess of dried blood on his skin. There was a moment where Sherlock seemed to hesitate, his eyes fixated on the large bloom of colour but just as John separated his lips to speak, the flannel was lifted and placed directly on the centre of the stain - a low breath escaped John's open lips at the feel of the warmth, his eyes closing instinctively. The flannel was still for just a second more, long enough for the both of them to feel the change of atmosphere pressing down against them and – just like in the restaurant earlier – forcing a distance and a closeness that was so unfamilar to them that for a moment it was almost as if the oxygen in the room had drained along with any hint of normalcy.

Neither of them voiced the fact that John could have easily done this part himself as Sherlock began to move the flannel firmly over John's bare skin.

The mixture of warm water and cool air was undeniably pleasant. The closest thing that John could compare it to was a hot water bottle, soothing and incredibly beneficial to his bouncing nerves. His breathing became long and deep, his entire body starting to relax into the lovely feeling as Sherlock carried on dragging the warm flannel over his chest, occasionally moving away to rinse it within the steaming water before bringing it back and beginning his careful ministrations once again. After three or so minutes of this there was an easily distinguishable moment where Sherlock took longer than usual to bring the flannel back to his skin and John could not even begin to know what was happening in his own mind as he let out a small groan of complaint, missing the warmth and pressure; he was instantly and painfully aware of what he had done and how it had sounded in the quiet of the room, his eyes instantly flying open and staring at the ceiling in mortification as Sherlock stopped wringing out the flannel and turned to stare, slowly, at the steadily horrified mask of John's face.

Taking in an unsteady breath, John shook his head gently and closed his eyes again. His voice cracked as he spoke. "Sorry."

Sherlock waited a few moments. "It's all right." He pressed the flannel against John's chest again, leaving it in the centre and not moving it. "You're tired."

"Mm." Yes, he was. But that had nothing to do with it. "I can take over if you want."

"No, I -" Sherlock's voice broke off; John felt the pressure on his chest increase, fingers stretching out until it was the palm of Sherlock's hand keeping the flannel pressed against his chest, felt his stomach leap a little too dramatically as the very tips of Sherlock's fingers brushed accidentally against his bare skin – he held his breath without even thinking about it, waiting, right hand clenching into a fist. "I need to... we need to get the shirt off now."

John opened his eyes as the pressure suddenly disappeared, letting his breath out in a sharp burst. He watched Sherlock throw the flannel carelessly onto the table and replace it with the carefully folded shirt sitting beside the bowl, both of them avoiding each other's eyeline as John shifted forward on the seat and fought another groan at how stiff and unwilling his body felt at the movement; the ticking of the clock as ever counting the seconds of silence.

Eventually John forced himself to say something. "I can probably do this part myself, Sherlock."

Sherlock did not even hesitate. He stood, giving John a curt nod before picking up the discarded flannel and the bowl of water. "I need to go out again. You'll be all right on your own for a few hours?"

Reality flooded back into the room, jarring. John hesitated. "Uh..."

"Should I call Greg to come and keep an eye on you?"

Christ, no. No. He suddenly desperately wanted to be alone. "No, don't do that. Yeah, I'll be fine. You go. Wait -" He extended his arm out to stop Sherlock as the man turned abruptly towards the doorway, suddenly concerned. "It's really late. You're not going back to the tunnel, are you?"

"No," was the short reply, "I'm going to see Mycroft."

"Oh."

"I'll be sure to give him your regards."

John nodded as Sherlock left the room, head spinning. "Yeah. All right."

The voice of his best friend called back to him from the kitchen:

"Make sure you rest, John. Don't wear yourself out with all that pondering you so ardently think you need to do. That's what the counselling is for."


	27. Chapter 27

**A/N: ****I will cry if I don't get comments on this. I will literally sob. SOB. GODDAMN IT, I WILL SOB GREAT BIG TEARS OF SALINE RIGHT DOWN MY FACE.**

******No, but in all seriousness, I so hope you enjoy this chapter. I hope it's in character. I hope it works. I hope you love it. *crosses fingers* Love you all, very much!**

******One more thing - whenever a chapter or part of a chapter is largely with Sherlock and the way he sees/feels things, it'll be written in _Italics. _Don't ask me why. That's just how it is. ;)**

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"_Sherlock." Mycroft pulled his front door open fully, eyes narrowing as he took in the tense teenager standing in front of him, eyes avoiding his. "What a… pleasant surprise."_

"_No need to lie," Sherlock said shortly, shifting from one leg to the other and allowing a quick glimpse up at his older brother – naturally he was in his dressing gown, likely having been woken up by Sherlock's continuous hammering on the door. He felt no remorse. "Can I come in?"_

_An eyebrow raised in wonder. "Oh, do you ask for permission now? I was under the impression that had I not answered the door you would simply break in, at least that was certainly the case on the last… hmm, was it three occasions?"_

_Irritated, Sherlock took a step forward. "Just let me in, Mycroft, I don't have all night."_

_Mycroft moved aside with a low, patronising chuckle. "I'm sure you don't, little brother – no doubt you have something or should I say _someone_ to get back to."_

_Sherlock brushed past him without so much as a glance, walking through the wide hallway and straight to Mycroft's study at the back of the house; his hand reached automatically for the light switch, bulbs sparkling to life and throwing the dark-wooded furniture into view as he strode towards the armchair facing the already lit fireplace – he always sat there. It was, in his mind, _his_ armchair. It was not altogether dissimilar from the chair he had laid claim to back at Well Place, though that in itself was no coincidence: he had, after all, stolen the chair from Mycroft's study in the first place._

_Just as he sat down the lights went out, plunging him into darkness._

"_Let's not waste electricity, Sherlock; the fire will do just as well for now."_

_Sherlock grunted low in his throat, his eyes watching the dancing flames with mild disinterest. "So you were expecting me, then."_

_Mycroft lowered himself into the seat to the right of Sherlock with a small huff, smoothing out his dressing gown and picking off a non-existent speck of lint. "Gregory was conscientious enough to alert me; it would seem he arrived back at Well Place shortly after you left."_

"_Hm."_

"_John informed him of where you were going," Mycroft continued, seemingly dispassionate about the fact. "Has he taken up residence with the two of you now? I had thought that the third bedroom was in use as a storage solution…" His misty blue eyes watched Sherlock carefully as he spoke, reading his brother just as well as Sherlock could read anybody. "…but perhaps the extra bed isn't required."_

_Another grunt; Sherlock was in no mood to tease, much less be teased. His nerves we so oddly frayed and his head so ridiculously impregnated with nonsense that his patience was vastly limited, if he currently had any grasp of patience at all; that remained to be seen, and goodness knew that if anyone would gaily attempt to push it to its boundaries it would be none other than Mycroft Holmes._

_A small smile flickered on his older sibling's face. "Not going to play along today? Well, how disappointing. I assume that you came here with an actual agenda, then, if you're not here simply to disturb my sleeping pattern."_

"_No. Yes."_

_Mycroft raised his eyes to the ceiling. "Which is it? As you said, brother mine, I don't have all night. Some of us have jobs to get to tomorrow morning."_

_Sherlock shot him a glare. "Yes, I haven't forgotten. Are Mummy and Daddy still delightfully proud of their clever little boy and his big important job? I'm sure you take great pleasure in lording it over me in my absence - Mycroft the success and Sherlock the pitiful student." He sniffed, turning away and staring back into the flickering blaze opposite him. "You must be enjoying the sensation of being an only child."_

"_You're being ridiculous," Mycroft snapped, crossing his long legs, "if you simply visited home more often you wouldn't have all of these ludicrous ruminations of being looked down upon as the less successful sibling. Far be it from me to encourage the growth of your already substantial ego, Sherlock, but our parents boast of you to our neighbours quite as much as they do me."_

"_Unlikely."_

"_Regardless." Mycroft's tone quickly became sharper, focused; Sherlock had no need to look at him to deduce that his brother had enjoyed quite enough chitchat and was impatient to get down to the crux of the matter. "Let's not waste any more time on this old argument when you clearly have something on your mind which apparently only I can unravel. I must say that I'm surprised."_

_Sherlock's fingers slid from their place on his knees and across his own lap, entwining; the movement was unnecessary, yet he felt the desire to do something, anything other than start talking. "Nothing surprises you."_

"_On the contrary, the fact that you are here to talk about something which is blatantly bothering you is indeed of great consternation to me when you seem to already have a live-in sounding board… not to mention your intent to foray into the world of psychological therapy as of 2pm tomorrow."_

_Of course he would already know. He knew everything. It embittered Sherlock no end. "It wasn't my idea."_

"_Oh, I have no doubt," his brother said lightly, fingers drumming against his upper leg, "I had already ascertained that John would be the inspiration behind such a drastic decision. He has been, after all, the reason behind most of your life choices in recent weeks."_

_Sherlock closed his eyes, words building up behind his desperate tongue but his mind as ever keeping him from releasing them into the cavernous room. He chose his response carefully, deliberately, ignoring Mycroft's allusion to his friend. "Drastic is an overstatement. I'm simply doing it to appease you and stop you from insisting that Greg limit his social life in order to keep an eye on me."_

"_That has absolutely nothing to do with it, Sherlock, so please don't insult my intelligence by simulating empathy for Gregory after years of being utterly indifferent to him. It's pathetic."_

"_I'm pathetic?" Sherlock's lips twisted into an unseemly sneer, his eyes tightening as he looked his brother up and down with blatant malice. "Says the man who has never even attempted to delve into the social cesspit that is humankind."_

"_I didn't say that you yourself were pathetic, simply your attempt to mask your actual motivation behind finally taking a well-needed step towards recovery."_

"_Oh, fine," Sherlock snarled, flicking his foot out as if to kick an imaginary sibling on the rug in front of him, "tell me then. Tell me about this supposed motivation that I'm apparently determined to deny."_

_Mycroft gazed steadily back at his brother, not a flicker of emotion on his impassive visage. "I was under the impression that you came here to talk to me about that very thing."_

_Damn him. Sherlock brushed his hands roughly down his upper legs and then stood abruptly, striding away from the armchair to stand directly beside the fireplace, the flames warming his torso as he shoved his hands into his trouser pockets; damn his observant brother and his impressions, damn his keeping quiet whilst Sherlock suffered. The word leapt out at him – suffering – and shattered into pieces in front of his eyes, burning: __**suffering; to undergo or feel pain or distress... synonyms include agony, torment, torture.**__ He batted the word away with a sweep of his hand, frustration swelling within the bitterness of his churning stomach and climbing the heat of his ribs to settle uneasily in the depths of his chest – he felt the familiar etchings of mania start to glow amidst his thoughts and flood his senses, threatening loss of control._

_Mycroft remained seated, watching his brother intently; his brow creased, his lips pursed. "Try to think clearly, Sherlock. Stay calm."_

_Sherlock's fists clenched within his pockets, his teeth grinding together as he fought the desperation to yell. "I'm _trying._"_

"_Not hard enough. I tried to warn you, I tried to discourage you – and him. I thought he would be weaker, easier to sway -"_

"_Well you were wrong," Sherlock hissed, jaw starting to ache from tension, "weren't you? He's stubborn, beyond manipulation. You should have seen that, you should have known, then you could have…" He broke off, not knowing how to finish that sentence and realising too late that he had just proved his brother irrevocably right as to the mass of confusion spreading like a cancer through his brain. He swallowed thickly, his eyes closing. "I am beyond comprehension."_

_Mycroft slowly uncrossed his legs, leaning forward a little. "You are never beyond comprehension, Sherlock. You just need to focus."_

"_He wanted me to tell you," Sherlock muttered, glacial eyes observing the gambolling flames with the same intensity John had so recently accused him of, "wanted me to… explain."_

_Staying silent, knowing that speaking would only discourage him, Mycroft simply waited._

"_He wanted me to inform you that we are… friends. And nothing more. He wished for me to -" Sherlock was struggling to find the right words, enough that he wasn't even aware that he hadn't yet spoken the man's name, " – to assure you that it was only my wish to irritate you which led to our pretence at being… sexually involved and that there is nothing further than that currently… happening." He ground his teeth together again, fully aware of the lame conclusion to his explanation. "He wanted me to tell you that."_

_Mycroft had not missed a single beat; he had heard every word said and heard every word that Sherlock had failed to utter. "Yes, well, you can thank John for me for his honesty." He waited, eyes remaining completely fixed on Sherlock's strained face. "And what about you?"_

_Sherlock lifted his fingers to his lips, his teeth finding the edge of a nail and starting to wear away at it; it was a habit he had not indulged in years. "What about me?"_

"_Don't feign ignorance, it's irritating." Mycroft sighed, inwardly wondering at Sherlock's allegation of John's stubbornness when he was even more prone to such behaviour. "What did _you_ want to tell me?"_

"_That." Sherlock's teeth moved on to the skin at the edge of his nail, biting unnecessarily hard. "That's what I came to say."_

_The older Holmes brother was quickly running out of patience. "Might I remind you again that I have a position of employment to attend tomorrow? I would quite like to get some sleep beforehand…"_

_Sherlock let his hand drop from his lips, a small bloom of blood welling to the surface where his teeth had been. "Then go. Sleep." He made no move to leave. "I may stay here tonight."_

_Mycroft pushed himself out of the chair, voice almost dangerously quiet. "No, brother mine, I don't think that you will. You will tell me what you came here to say and then you will return back to Well Place to look after John, as you promised to do."_

_Sherlock was instantly alert; he knew without a shadow of a doubt that John would have never told Greg that, no matter how talkative he was feeling. He couldn't explain it even to himself, though god knew he wanted to be able to, but he was absolutely certain that John understood the depths to which Sherlock had gone in order to do the things he had done back at Well Place and that he would keep it to himself regardless of what he was currently thinking. He raised his chin, defensive. "Is that an educated guess or have you been having me followed again?"_

_Mycroft's gaze was steady. "Gregory told me that John was injured. You are here, clearly shaken, resisting vulnerability, and you have yet to tell me the real reason as to why you turned up on my doorstep at 11 o'clock at night. You have blood on your shirt which is evidently not your own and considering he so blindly overlooked your drug addiction in order to pursue a relationship with you I am relatively certain that you feel a certain level of responsibility for him and his care." His own chin tilted up, matching Sherlock's arrogance without hesitation. "Therefore you wouldn't have left him to care for himself."_

_Sherlock looked down to his navy shirt and saw that Mycroft was indeed right; a streak of blood arced over his chest, though for the life of him he couldn't think of where it had come from or a point where John's hand had connected with his person. "I'll have to throw this away."_

"_Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically gentle, eyes less judgemental than they had been before. "You are falling apart."_

_The voice that came from Sherlock's throat was so unfamiliar in its brokenness, its vulnerability, that Sherlock was unsure that it was even himself was speaking. "I've observed relationships for years. I've watched people from my pedestal, seeing them converse and interact, somehow gleaning joy and sadness and anger and… love, simply by allowing the constant presence of another person in their lives. I have seen friendships fall, marriages fail, families deteriorate and I have never understood the basis behind them, the foundations. Every connection seemed weak, damaged before it had even taken hold. I didn't want to understand it. I didn't want to know."_

_Again Mycroft played silent, simply watching his brother slowly unspool._

"_As it turns out, brother dear, I…" He laughed, an utterly fractured noise which had no place in the room whatsoever, "…I am just as weak. I am just as foolish. I have allowed myself the frustration and oddity of a relationship and it was not my choice, I did not openly make this decision to invite -" he spat the word, the sound of it shaping almost visibly in the air, " – _sentiment_ into my world. It is clear as day to you, I know that – just looking at your face it's obvious that you knew what would happen and you knew how it would crawl and fester and grow within my mind… as you so accurately said earlier, you did warn me. And him. You warned us both. And I should have listened." His head shook back and forth slowly, eyes glassy as they stared blindly into the fire. "I should have listened to you for once in my life."_

"_What has changed?" Mycroft asked. "Until today it seemed that everything was fine, everything was… settled. Something has to have happened."_

_Sherlock's eyes raised haltingly to meet Mycroft's. "He got hurt, Mycroft. He got hurt and it was my fault."_

"_Explain."_

"_I've never had to think of another person in my life, my only concern was ever my own well-being. It didn't matter what happened to anyone else because there never _was_ anybody else, nobody that mattered. Oh, I had family – you, Mother, Father – and perhaps you could include Greg though until recently I never really included him in any of my considerations, but even then… even then I didn't need to think of you. Barring you, everybody had somebody. And you never needed anybody, you still don't. You're happy alone."_

_Something passed over Mycroft's face; it lasted just a moment, and was gone before Sherlock could notice it._

"_But John -" Sherlock broke off, a sharp intake of breath as he spoke the man's name for the first time since he had arrived, " – John destroyed that, he… he broke in, he interfered. Until tonight it hadn't mattered so much, or not to the point that it matters now -" _

"_Why does it matter now?"_

"_Because he got hurt!" It exploded from him like a firework, his entire body vibrating from it as he whirled to properly face his brother, eyes wide and full of undisclosed emotion, "he got hurt and it was my fault for not thinking of him! He got hurt on my watch, Mycroft, and I don't understand why it makes me feel the way that I do!"_

"_Calm down," Mycroft admonished, though not unkindly. "You're losing control, you need to reign it back in."_

"_I… _can't_." Sherlock said brokenly, his hands moving up to cover his face; Mycroft was conscious to the fact that Sherlock was not talking about the volume of his voice as he had been. "I don't understand any of it, it is beyond me now. Before it was easy, easier than it should have been but now it's different and it's interfering with how I think and react and John is lying at my home right now with a bloodied hand because I didn't consider what could happen to him… and now it's all I can think of. It is poisoning my mind and I cannot fathom it. You're right, Mycroft, you are absolutely right as you ever seem to be -" His hands dropped to his sides, his eyes finding Mycroft's and knowing that his brother would be able to see exactly what he was really saying, " – I lost control and now he's going to leave."_

"_Sherlock…"_

"_I don't understand. I don't _understand._"_

"_Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was stronger, firmer, "I asked you a question earlier that you have yet to answer and I think that now is the time to try."_

"_What question?" Sherlock took a step back in his desperation, then forward again. "What question?"_

"_Calm down first. Take a deep breath and calm yourself. You're acting like a foolish, hormone-ridden teenager and you need to stop." Mycroft hesitated for a moment, realising what he had said; Sherlock laughed dryly, shaking his curly head._

"_I am a teenager, Mycroft. We forget this, I know, but I am. I _am _a hormone-ridden teenager."_

_Mycroft took a step back, closing his eyes for a moment. "Which certainly doesn't help."_

_Narrowing his pale eyes and directing his heated stare at his brother, Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Doesn't help what?"_

_The older man opened his eyes and met Sherlock's hot gaze wearily. "Though I hate to use age or the natural biology of a human being as a point of explanation, it would probably be accurate to assume that were you, say, ten or twenty years older than you are now that you would not be quite so… emotional."_

"_I'm not emotional!"_

"_Don't be an idiot," Mycroft snapped, "you're drowning in it. You've completely relinquished your grip on any level of sense and you're falling to your emotions entirely. It's disappointing, certainly, but you must accept that you are not in your right mind and that you are currently experiencing a wealth of emotions which you have never before allowed yourself to feel."_

_Sherlock said nothing, allowing his glare to say it all. Mycroft smirked._

"_I'll take that as your acquiescence. I wouldn't have thought it would ever be an issue, but I genuinely believe that were you older and less highly strung than you are currently - thanks to the mass of hormones pulsing through your adolescent body – you would not be quite so dramatic about all of this. You have to push it aside, Sherlock. You have to do as you've always done and realise that you are better than your biological urges."_

_Sherlock snorted in derision, looking away. "Biological urges. You make me sound like a… a sex-obsessed ruffian."_

"_Not quite what I meant, but regardless: try to think past it. Try to think clearly."_

_Silence fell between them as Sherlock turned away from Mycroft, his arms falling back to his sides and his hands curling into tight fists as he begrudgingly attempted to do as his brother had suggested; he shut his eyes and allowed himself a deep inhale, breathing in the heat of the room and the scent of burning wood, repeating the action several times and slowly unfurling his fingers from their clenched position. He let the sound of crackling fill the whorl of his ear, the heat of the fire brush his skin and bring him back to the room and out of his head. After a full minute of this he finally began to deviate his body back to face Mycroft, eyes not quite so full, mind not quite so jumbled._

_The two brothers gazed at each other._

_Sherlock nodded. "All right. What was the question?"_

_Mycroft eyed him closely. "Are you sure you're ready?"_

_An impatient sigh, gloriously typical of himself. "Just ask it."_

_They stared at each other again. Eventually Mycroft gave a small nod._

"_Good. Focus, now."_

"_I am."_

_Mycroft kept his eyeline steady. "What did you come here to tell me?"_

_Sherlock's body started to vibrate again, but it was different this time: he was in control. He could say this and it would make sense. He could say it and it wouldn't have to shake his foundations. "I came here to tell you that John says we're not in a relationship..."_

_Mycroft rolled his eyes, raising his hands up in exasperation. "Sherlock -"_

"…_and to tell you that I think he's the most ignorant man I've ever met."_

_The silence that met Sherlock's words was altogether different from the silences of before; it was no longer full of sentences that neither of them were willing to say, no longer empty and stale. The silence that filled the room as the two brothers stared across the fire at one another was a twisted mixture of truth, of understanding and, most prominent of all, pity. For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes understood what people often described about the aftermath of speaking something achingly true: a pressure had lifted from his shoulders at the mere vocalisation of it. Equally true was the fact that before he had said the words he hadn't even been sure of it himself. But he had said it now, and as he had often quoted to himself in the dark of his bedroom, 'when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth' – and this was the truth. It was improbable. It was utterly, undeniably improbably. But it was not impossible._

_There was a sense to it that he could only now understand._

_Mycroft watched him gravely, his face half hidden in shadow. "So. You are saying to me…"_

"_In my years of observation I have not been idle. I have taken note of everything, no matter how ridiculous or unimportant the details have seemed to me. I told you that I have watched people in their relationships, their friendships, their acquaintanceships – I have seen and I have absorbed and I have stored this information away. I have not understood until now the difference. But I do. Understand. John Watson -" his eyes closed briefly, the name suddenly carrying such significance that he could not allow himself to think too much of it now, " – is my closest friend. And he is important beyond anyone else I have ever had the misfortune to meet." He forced his eyes back open, verdigris gaze unwavering against Mycroft's. "I will not pepper my confession with unnecessary declarations, nor will I say that I feel any particular sexual urges or desires. That is not what fuels what I… feel. I believe that I remain unaffected by that particular consequence of the hormones you so accurately described as currently flowing through my – what was it? – adolescent body." He allowed a small, controlled smile. "But I am relatively sure of what the rest of my admittedly unwelcome emotions mean and therefore confirming what I said earlier as the undeniable truth."_

_Mycroft sighed; acceptance, an odd taste of sympathy that was utterly out of character. "And that is?"_

"_That John Watson is the most ignorant man I have ever met in my life. And we are, at the very least in my own estimation, in a relationship that extends beyond the realms of friendship."_

"_I see." Mycroft's hand dipped into the pocket of his dressing gown, pulling from it a pack of cigarettes that Sherlock was almost certain had been bought earlier that day. His brother slid one out with his dextrous, elegant fingers and brought it to slowly his lips. "And will you be telling him?"_

_Sherlock watched as Mycroft sparked a match and lifted it to light the end of the cigarette, embers glowing to life. "Certainly not. It is, after all, my decision to label it as I have. The ball is very much in his court."_

"_You do realise that he may remain blissfully ignorant for the foreseeable future?"_

_Sherlock's mind flashed back to hours earlier, the feel of John's racing pulse underneath his fingertips and the sound of his gentle sighs carrying across the limited space between them. "We'll see."_

"_Be careful, Sherlock," Mycroft advised quietly, turning away as he blew smoke from between his lips. "My warning is still relevant. You'll do more harm than good."_

"_Mm. Yes. I expect you're right."_


	28. Chapter 28

**A/N: Hey guys - sorry for the delay, things are a bit full-on at the moment. Was still written with love and adoration, though - I never forget you! Comments eternally appreciated!**

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

He couldn't call it an 'emotional rollercoaster' as that was to imply that his emotions were out of his control, and that simply wasn't the case; his emotions, despite his embarrassing little display in front of Mycroft, were very much in check now. Certainly the journey back in the cab was helping – he'd cracked the window a little, and the almost-warm breeze that was filling the back of the car smoothing away any edges that were threatening to cut through his resolve and ensuring that his mind was back to its sharp, concise processes. It was important that he stay lucid. It was important that he think this through rationally, logically, without the irritating haze of emotion that had so nearly made him demand that John Watson see sense.

Not that it was sense. It was entirely ridiculous.

Sherlock wasn't completely ignorant. He knew that there was a chance that John would never understand the nature of their relationship and that he would go on seeing Sherlock as his best friend – something that certainly could be construed as progression seeing as Mike Stamford had once held that title, and truthfully Sherlock was somewhat smug about that fact – and, really, was that so terrible? Having witnessed the ebbs and flows of relationships over the years, Sherlock had long come to the conclusion that the strongest relationships were not necessarily those of a romantic quality; more accurately it seemed that the more enduring relationships were those rooted firmly within purely platonic boundaries, friendships having a higher survival rate than those of an amorous nature. The only real issue that could stem from this, as far as Sherlock could see, was if John found a willing romantic partner. Though he was aware that friendships could be sustained with someone who was embarking upon a meaningful relationship with someone of their choosing, he was also conscious of the fact that more often than not these friendships tended to change and become less important in the grand scheme of things.

He found his jaw tensing at the idea. The truth was that John had become (irritatingly) the most important person in Sherlock's life – naturally he hoped that John had come to reciprocate these feelings if nothing else, so the fact that he could be so easily replaced any day now was of increasing concern to him. He had, admittedly, become somewhat possessive over his friend, something that had almost been revealed in the restaurant earlier that evening; John had practically waxed lyrical about his new counsellor. What was it – friendly? Lots of smiles? Intense? It had grated Sherlock's nerves then and it still managed to do the same now, especially once John had admitted that the intensity brought about a similarity between the two of them. No matter how clueless Sherlock appeared to be about friendships he was well versed in what was appealing to people and what was considered uninviting – surely it would be that John would undoubtedly prefer this _nice_ man who was so warm and welcoming and offered him a stability that Sherlock could not? How could John, in his right mind, find Sherlock a better choice for his confidant? He knew himself to be unfailingly unpleasant. True, he had softened somewhat in the last month or so, but that meant nothing. First impressions, as he had said the first time he met John face-to-face, were impossibly important. And he had not made a good one.

Sherlock stared bitterly out of the window. Damned sentiment. John had no one to blame but himself if this ended badly, for being so bafflingly likeable.

By the time he had paid the cabbie and quietly entered his house once more, Sherlock had changed his mind. Not about John – no, that had not changed at all – but he had come to the realisation that if he was ultimately determined to have John by his side and not find himself replaced by a currently nameless woman (because he was certain that John was not homosexual) then he would have to find a way to make him understand... no, not make him. That was all wrong. He didn't want to force his own frail grasp of what was going on between them onto John. He wanted John to decide for himself. But John was stubborn. He was ignorant. He couldn't see for himself what was painfully obvious.

Even _Mycroft_ hadn't been surprised.

Sliding his coat from his arms and hanging it on the edge of the banister, he found himself nonplussed when a murmur came from the living room.

"Sherlock?"

He felt it as clearly as he had when he had first uttered John's name in Mycroft's study earlier on, that faint nudge in his chest that told him that something had changed, something was different; even though he was aware of its foundations now, it was still an odd sensation. He pushed it aside, determined that at least for now he should act as he had before this – then again he didn't really _want_ anything to change, at least not in the way that they interacted – and silently took his steps to stand in the middle of the doorway.

The room was dark; he could not see John, or at least not in detail; he simply looked towards the lump of blankets on the sofa and directed his voice towards it. "I thought I told you to rest."

The blankets shifted and a figure sat up; John was silhouetted against the dim light of the street lamp outside. "I was. I did. My hand -" Sherlock watched as Silhouette-John held it up, " - was prickling. Doesn't make for an easy sleep."

"No," Sherlock agreed quietly, leaning against the door frame and staring at the dark shape in front of him, "I'm sure it doesn't."

He could see John's profile, looking away from him for a moment and down at his hands, though surely he couldn't see himself any better than Sherlock could see him; he could practically hear the ticking of John's mind, words cycling through and being tossed aside as soon as they were deemed useless. It would have been amusing if Sherlock hadn't just spent an evening being unbearably honest about his own thoughts – perhaps it was time that John did the same.

He took a step into the room. "Tell me what you're thinking," he demanded, tone irritated; was he irritated? Yes. A little. "You've had a few hours on your own to gather your thoughts – indulge me. What have you been thinking whilst I've been gone?"

John was silent for a moment before speaking. "Were you really with Mycroft?"

"Yes."

John's profile nodded. "Did you get what you needed?"

Sherlock felt his brow crease, momentarily distracted. "Why would you assume I needed something from him?"

The black shape of John's face turned towards him. "Well, you _did_ leave me alone in your house for two hours at a time when most people would be sleeping. So... y'know, I thought..." He trailed off, leaving Sherlock to fill in the blanks. The irritation returned.

"You say it like I meant it as a personal affront to you. I didn't leave simply with the intention of... leaving you." It sounded odd. Not at all what he meant. "I had things to discuss with him and it could wait no longer. It seemed opportune considering you needed the rest to recuperate."

A quiet sigh filled the space between them. "I know. I know that you didn't leave just to make me feel lonely as some sort of... punishment."

Sherlock was unable to stop himself from taking a few more steps into the room, close enough that he could make out the shine of John's eyes; the nudge his chest interrupted his train of thought for a moment, temporarily focused on the slight shimmer directed wholly towards him. He jerked his head forward slightly, forcing himself back to the conversation at hand.

_Punishment._

"You were... lonely?" _No, no, that wasn't what you meant to say. Fool._ "I don't understand what you mean. Why would I feel it necessary to punish you?" He shook his head again, glancing behind him, physically avoiding what was right in front of him. "You're being ridiculous."

He could practically feel the incredulous stare coming from John. It was uncomfortable. "Sherlock, I was specifically saying that I knew that you hadn't left because -" He cut himself off, hands shifting against the blankets and pulling them off of his curled-up form. "Right, no, we're getting ourselves confused."

"I'm not confused," Sherlock muttered, folding his arms over his chest as he found himself listening out for any tell-tale noise to indicated that Greg had awakened. "Did he bring anyone home with him?"

It took a few slow moments for John to catch up; his mind was so infinitely delayed that Sherlock found it amazing that he had somehow managed to get into university at all. "What? Greg? No, he came home alone. A few minutes after you left."

"Yes, Mycroft told me."

"Oh." Silence. "You didn't answer my question."

Sherlock made a noise of obvious impatience in the back of his throat. "And you have yet to answer mine. And I asked first."

The sound of a throat clearing, the shuffling of legs as John slid them from the soft leather and placed his feet firmly on the wooden floor. "Yes I did. I asked you if you were really with Mycroft."

"That's one thought. I know that you don't have the fastest mind in the room, John, but surely you managed to process more than that in the two hours that I was gone."

"Christ." Sherlock watched as John slowly shook his head from side to side before turning his head back up to look upon Sherlock's shadowed figure. "Did you and Mycroft argue or something? Because you seem to have taken a larger-than-average dose of arrogance since you were last here."

Sherlock bristled; his defences rose and his mind began to speed up – ordinarily it would be a good thing. Not necessarily at this point. "This is how I always am, John. I'm arrogant. I'm insensitive. I'm unemotional. Is it really so surprising?" His lips twisted into a sneer.

John stood abruptly, sending a blanket and two cushions to the ground; Sherlock stood up straighter out of instinct, tilting his chin up as the shorter man stood directly opposite him. He could almost see his friend's eyes flash. Ah. The familiar, unpleasant tension. It was disturbingly welcome. "No. No, I'm not surprised." John's voice was low, as if he were struggling to keep quiet. "I know what you are, Sherlock, and it's hardly a shock to me when you turn into an edgy arsehole. What _is_ surprising to me – and this is an answer to your earlier question too, if you were wondering – is that you actually found it within yourself to take the time and effort to get me where I am now. It... it's a mystery to me."

Sherlock's eyes flitted down to John's fists, knowing that would be the place in which the tension showed most; he couldn't suppress the tiny smile of justification as he saw both hands clenched, fingers curled tightly into his palms – wait, no, that wasn't right. John's cut would open. Before he had a chance to say anything he heard a derisive snort, saw the small, sharp genuflect of John's head to the side; he didn't need to physically see John's lips to know that they had twisted into a humourless smile. He could hear it in the man's voice.

"Oh, have I said something amusing? Does it, I don't know, does it make you laugh to think that I spent the last two hours trying to come up with reasons why you bothered to take care of the cut on my hand? Or why you agreed to bring me back here?" Sherlock's eyes flickered back up to John's face for a moment before darting back down to his left hand; he had to stop clenching it, now. He was going to do himself more damage. "I know, it's _ridiculous,_ right? To wonder why you did something so... so human? I mean, the best reason I could come up with was guilt. You felt guilty for dragging me along to your enigmatic little meeting with Leroy -"

"Lewis," Sherlock interrupted, not even aware he had spoken.

The skin over John's hands tightened. "Fine. Lewis. You felt guilty for me getting hurt on the way to your illicit gathering of information or drugs or whatever you were picking up -"

"Oh, please," Sherlock snorted, tearing his eyes away from John's hand to look up at his friend's face in utter exasperation, "are you still under the misapprehension that I would take you along on a drugs collection? I already told you, I wouldn't take you with me for that." His voice lowered to a mutter. "You'd probably fall on a used needle and bleed to death..."

"Why are you so incapable of speaking to me like a human being?" John asked angrily, his voice inching up in volume as his frustration began to overflow. "Why can you not just be... be..."

"Ordinary?" Sherlock felt a strange trickle of something cold and uncomfortable down his spine, something he hadn't felt before. He had no word for it. "Decent? Friendly?" The word brought back a renewed bitterness towards John's counsellor. "Would you like me to smile more? Y'know, I could be intense too, I know how much you like that, but maybe I should crack a few jokes too?" His mind threw a curve-ball, reminding him of John's injured hand and the fist it was currently curled into; he started to step towards John, not thinking of how it would be construed during such a moment. "Tell me, John, tell me what you'd like me to be so that I can at least know how much of a disappointment I'll be to you when I fail to do all of those things, I'm _dying_ to know -"

"Take one more step, Sherlock," John warned, his injured hand lifting and pointing, "and I _will_ hit you."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, mind racing, John's words not quite processing. "What?"

"I mean it." John's voice was strong, a little raw. "If you so much as reach for me I'll defend myself in a heartbeat."

_That_ sunk in. "You... what the hell are you talking about, John?" Sherlock squinted his eyes in the darkness, trying to see at least the outline of John's features, wishing he could read them so he could see what on earth was going on in his friend's head. "For crying out loud, I'm not going to _hit_ you."

John's entire body seemed to tense. "No? Then why are you coming towards me?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes to the ceiling, hardly believing what he was surmising, unsure whether to be amused, condescending or angry. Or all three. Or none. "Why would I hit you?"

"Because you think I want you to be something else." John's tone had changed, a note of uncertainty weaving its way into his words. "Because... because you think I want you to be ordinary."

"Well, you do. But that doesn't mean I'm going to hit you, why would I waste valuable energy on a fight I'd probably lose?"

John was quiet for a moment; Sherlock took the opportunity to gather his bearings once more, swallowing the odd and uneven flow of heat that had been threading its way through him since the beginning of the tension; god, it was all exhausting. Caring was exhausting. Well, if this was caring. Mostly it just felt like... irritation.

Maybe that was how it always felt?

John's voice in the darkness. "I didn't say that."

Sherlock needed a millisecond to recall what had been said before. "You don't need to say it aloud for it to be true. Of course you'd want me to be ordinary, you're only human." He could almost hear the moisture of John's roving eyeballs against his eyelids, the rolling of eyes practically audible. Sherlock sighed. "I didn't mean it like that, John, so please stop being so inanely sensitive. I merely meant that you can't help but wish I were... simpler. Easier." An uninvited lump rose to his throat at the idea; he cleared it away with a cough, annoyed that it had even appeared in the first place. "Anyone would wish it. But it's not who I am."

"I know," John agreed impatiently, mimicking Sherlock's stance as he folded his arms over his chest. "But I don't want you to be ordinary. If I wanted you to be ordinary, I'd... well." The tiniest of warmth in his voice – a smile. A small one, true, but a smile nonetheless. "I'd be talking to Mike in the dark instead of you."

"No you wouldn't," Sherlock said dismissively, waving his hand and whacking the words aside, "your hand wouldn't be injured and you wouldn't be sleeping on his sofa. You wouldn't be in his house. You wouldn't be arguing with him. You -"

"I get the point, Sherlock."

"So what is it, then?" That cold trickle down his spine again – what was that? Why did it keep appearing? He would have preferred the nudge in his chest over this, _this_... well, this was just uncomfortable. He forced himself to keep talking. "What is it that you would want me to be if not this?" His large hands gestured down his body, knowing that John wouldn't see the exact motion but would hopefully understand.

John simply stood silent, seemingly staring at him.

Sherlock's patience ran out.

"Just _tell_ me, John, stop being so frustratingly reticent. What do you want me to be?"


	29. Chapter 29

**A/N: Just a really little one today as I'm not feeling too well but felt the urge to write. Don't you just love it when it flows from your fingertips? I certainly do. Hope you enjoy it!**

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"Just _tell_ me John, stop being so frustratingly reticent. What do you want me to be?"

John was wishing he'd never even mentioned the idea of Sherlock being something other than himself. He hadn't meant it... or at least, he didn't _think_ he'd meant it. There was something else, too, something wrong with the situation – Sherlock's tone was odd, an edge of desperation or a quality equatable to it making the question seem as if it wasn't as straightforward a demand as it first seemed, an extra meaning that John couldn't even begin to define. He felt his fists unclench and raise to his face, barely conscious of what he was doing as he rubbed them over his face.

_Ouch_. He'd forgotten about his injured palm in the heat of the moment.

The tall man standing two metres from him shifted, arms falling to his sides. "I understand that it's a difficult question." A familiar mocking thread wove its way through Sherlock's voice, though the indefinable edge was still there. "Should I rephrase it?"

"No," John said, suddenly exhausted, "no, don't bother. Look, I didn't mean it. I don't... expect you to be anything else than what you are. You're fine. You're fine as you are."

"Apparently not. Apparently you'd rather I was more of a human being than I am." As Sherlock shifted again John found that his friend's face was suddenly dimly illuminated in the light coming in from outside, revealing half an expression which was incredibly difficult to read. "Is it truly so difficult to communicate with me?"

"No," John repeated. "It's not. You're fine."

Sherlock's patience was clearly wearing thin. "Stop telling me I'm fine, John, I know very well what I am." The man took a deep breath, the half of his face that John could see momentarily becoming a mask of calmness. "Perhaps this isn't the time to be having this conversation. You're tired."

"What conversation? Am I missing something?" He felt very much as if he were. "I'm not tired, or not so tired that you can't talk to me. Something's obviously on your mind, I..." He didn't know how to finish that sentence. "Talk to me, Sherlock. You're all..."

"Yes? All what?"

John sighed. "_Intense_."

"Ah." The lips that John could see twitched up into an almost insignificantly small smile. "Of course I am. And so? This is yet another part of myself that I'm seemingly unable to change and therefore something that you think to be... _fine_."

"I... all right, yeah, it's fine. That's... good, whatever." John was becoming increasingly intent in his mission to smooth things over, to return things to normal. "You don't need to change it."

Languorous, one pace forward, half a metre closer than he was before; Sherlock advanced towards John with the all the grace of a feline. It was unnerving. John fought the urge to take a step back. "And yet you're currently holding all the tension of a stretched rubber band, John. Is that... fine? The fact that you're currently physically holding yourself in place in your desperation to move away... is that fine too?"

He was doing it on purpose. He had to be. The intensity of the atmosphere around them had shifted from uncomfortably awkward to something else entirely, not completely dissimilar to how it had been before Sherlock had fled from the room after... taking care of John's hand. Wait, _fled_? Was that the right word? Fled would infer that there had been something to run from, but there hadn't been. Not really. The images flooded back to John as he recalled the brushing of Sherlock's thumb on his wrist, the sensation of the warm cloth in its firm strokes over his chest and finally the feel of fingertips pressing briefly, unintentionally against his bare skin -

_Nothing to run from_, John told himself heatedly, undoing all of the good work he'd done whilst Sherlock was gone, thinking of the things he'd determinedly ignored in the hours of Sherlock's disappearance, _nothing at all. Get a grip._

He didn't realise he hadn't responded until Sherlock took yet another step forward; his whole face was in lacklustre viewing now, revealing the half-smile and the odd glitter in his eyes that made John suddenly feel as if he were hunted and Sherlock the hunter, a mask of pure intent set against Sherlock's long, curved face. John decided that there was no time like the present to take the first step – so he did, a foot shuffling back on the hard floor beneath him and carrying him the smallest step back and away from the man who was suddenly disturbingly unfamiliar.

The intensity wasn't at all like before. Before it had been unintentional. This... this had intent.

Sherlock's voice was so low it practically reverberated across the space between them. "Don't."

John froze, one foot behind him and the other still firmly planted on the ground; he teetered slightly, managing to steady himself without making it too obvious that he had almost lost his balance. He forced his tone to adopt a casual lilt. "Don't what?"

Sherlock did not move his stare from John's face. "Don't move away."

There was something in it... there was nothing in it. John felt his palms begin to tingle, a clamminess beginning to make itself known as he stood and tried as hard as he could to maintain eye-contact – yes, it was very much the hunter and the hunted. He did not want to break eye-contact. That would leave him vulnerable.

_To what? To Sherlock?_ Sherlock wouldn't hurt him. That wasn't his intention.

But there _was_ intent. He'd already figured that out.

His steady heartbeat picked up slightly.

Sherlock took another gliding step forward. "Stay exactly where you are."

John resisted the impulse to do the exact opposite. "I..." This was becoming obscene, all this tension and no viable reason for it, it was ridiculous. "Sherlock, we just need to talk about what...whatever's bothering you. You're..." Why was he struggling to find words? It was as if he couldn't get enough oxygen, his rapidly accelerating heart berating him for not breathing enough. He took in a deep, unexpectedly staggered breath. "You're not... yourself."

A low laugh, a rumble in the back of the white throat that was steadily getting closer. "No, John, this is _exactly_ who I am. This is what you want from me. You said it yourself."

"I don't understand," John stressed, putting his hands out in front of him as if to physically stop Sherlock's advance – then again, that might be his last hope of righting the situation, if it came to it. "I didn't say that. Are you drunk? Did you have brandy with Mycroft?"

"Why are you so intent on defending yourself?" The question was full of genuine curiosity. "Do you think I'm going to hurt you?"

John felt his fists start to clench again, the clammy texture of his palms uncomfortable. "No, I – you have been drinking, haven't you?" That would explain it, that would absolutely explain it. "Look, sit down, we can -"

"You said that you wanted who I was, what I am, however you want to phrase it." John searched what was visible of his friend's face for a sign of inebriation, anything that would explain his behaviour. There was nothing. Nothing. "And this is it. You said yourself that I have a habit of being intense, quite without my knowledge."

Which obviously wasn't the case now. The words left John's lips without his permission. "But you know what you're doing _now_."

Sherlock allowed a tiny nod. "Indeed. Does that change your mind about me? About our relationship?"

He couldn't stop himself. "Friendship."

**-X-**

Sherlock failed to cease the small exhale of air from between his teeth; it was his fault, he had allowed the situation to become something that it shouldn't be and he had let the word fly from his tongue without a single thought as to what he was saying. Of course John was still blissfully ignorant – or not so blissful, if the palpable strain currently rolling through John's tense body was anything to go by – and had simply assumed that Sherlock had used the wrong term, or the wrong term for what John deemed it to be, at least. But Sherlock was not ignorant. He was so aware of it at that moment that he was steadily losing control of his resolve to allow John to figure things out in his own time. It was the reason behind the intentional increasing level of intensity in the room and the reason that he was watching John's every movement in order to read as accurately as he could in the darkness how John was reacting to it.

He had to compromise in his response. He wouldn't force it, but he wouldn't overlook it either.

"Call it whatever you want to call it, it's not particularly important right now. Does this -" he extended a hand towards John and back to himself, " - change your desire to... know me?"

John looked away, turning his head to the side; his profile again, slightly visible in the dim light and his steady adjustment to the darkness. He could see the tension in John's jaw, the flicker of muscle beneath the skin. It shook his resolve further still.

"No," his best friend responded tightly. "It's fi-"

No. No, he would not say that damned word again. Sherlock took the remaining few strides to close the distance between them and reached out with an impatient hand, grasping the wrist of John's tightly clenched left hand and dragging it towards him, the bandage practically brushing against his cheek as he pulled it up beside his face. His entire body pulsed with unfamiliar heat as he came quite as close to John as he had ever been, so close that he could now accurately read the confusion and brief flash of panic on his friend's face, close enough that the scent of him which rose up and clouded around him was almost overwhelming. His mind quickly raced with errant and useless thoughts, his conversation with Mycroft earlier at the very forefront – he had told his brother that he had no sexual desire towards John yet there was something about the body-warmth emanating from the shorter man in front of him that made him wonder if he perhaps had spoken too soon, the effect on his inability to focus rendering him into a state of clarity and awareness that made him feel quite overpowered by his senses. He took a dragging breath inwards, cursing himself at doing so as it was almost as if he were _tasting_ John... oh, he was so out of his depth now. His body was responding, humming – no, it wasn't sexual, it wasn't quite that; the part of himself that should be making itself known in its frustratingly obvious way hadn't yet kicked into gear, he didn't feel the urge to do anything other than breathe his best friend in, he didn't want to... _touch_ him, not like that, though he was devastatingly aware of his fingertips against John's hot skin and knew that he liked it, knew that it was a good feeling and one that he wanted all to himself...

The idea of someone else ever being as close to John as he was now filled him with a fierce sense of possession that was very much akin to being lit on fire, from the very depths of his stomach streaking upwards all through his torso.

He breathed the name as if it were the only word left in his vocabulary.

"_John._"

He caught it the moment it appeared – the almost delicious flicker of resistance against John's torn expression. He felt the shudder of weakness that resonated through John's body, saw the separation of lips as a stuttered exhale of breath fell against Sherlock's throat. He liked that. He liked that a lot. He wanted more of it, wanted more moments of John not being able to pretend – because surely he was pretending. Surely he couldn't miss the intent behind Sherlock's intensity.

He had to know. He had to know if there was any possibility that John would eventually come to realise, if not his own possible feelings, then at least the reality of Sherlock's.


	30. Chapter 30

**A/N: AND UNTO THIS DAY A CHAPTER WAS BORN. Enjoy, my darlings! COMMENTS ARE SNUGGLED AND LOVED AND WHISPERED SWEET NOTHINGS TO!**

**Chapter Thirty**

"Sher..." The word was interrupted by a breath hitching in the smaller man's throat, a fluttering of eyelids as they closed against Sherlock's heated gaze; no, Sherlock wanted to see, he wanted to see every colour in John's eyes and every heightening of emotion. Action had to be taken, evidence had to be analysed. This was not acceptable, the avoidance of the situation had to be discontinued.

Sherlock brought his thumb lightly over the bandage wrapped around John's injured hand and let it trail back to the wrist, the delicate skin and its myriad of veins beneath the gentle pressure seeming to rise and yearn against him – his own eyes found themselves closing as he felt the pace of John's pulse quicken, storing the information away and knowing that he would foolishly replay it a thousand times under the canopy of darkness in his bedroom. He inhaled deeply, the tiniest of growls aching in the back of his throat as he tasted John once more, forcing his eyes to open and focus on the almost pained level of intensity on John's face – a face that Sherlock had memorised, without his realisation. He knew every crease, every dip, every curve. He wanted to see his favourite half-smile, because against his better judgement he had allowed the concept of 'favourites' to enter his system like a drug; he had picked, chosen, acknowledged these favourites and now wanted them all in front of him so that he could feast on them and make himself believe that he wasn't simply going insane and that this weakness could be made a strength were John to feel the way that he did. _Feel_. The concept was still novel, frustrating, damaging but it was the same sort of damage caused by the pinprick of a needle and shimmering golden liquid – an addict, he was an addict and he knew it and at that moment he did not care because he was getting his fill and feeling the fierce rush of adrenaline through his body.

When he could stand the blind ignorance of his best friend no more he forced the words from his lips; he did not sound like himself, he was possessed, utterly transformed. He had not wanted something this much in his entire life.

"Look at me."

A shudder, a tightening of John's strong jaw. A hiss of two, simple letters. "No."

He tightened his grip on the wrist he held so close to himself, his thumb skating once more over the incalescent skin beneath his grasp. "Do it. Look at me, now."

John's hand curled into a fist by his ear, a small grunt of pain from the man's lips as he felt the repercussions of his actions. "I can't."

"It's a simple act, John, I am not asking the world of you." Yes he was. He was. He knew it. "Open your eyes and stop being so unfailingly stubborn."

"I'm not stub-"

"You are, you are and it is the most frustrating trait. You are the most stubborn, ignorant man I have ever met and I am asking you for the final time, John, to open your eyes and just _look_ at me."

It was a challenge and Sherlock had no intention of recalling it; he knew that John would latch onto it, would react to it, would in the very least feel that familiar rush of frustration at being called both stubborn and ignorant in the same sentence – two things that Sherlock knew very well to be traits that John associated with the genius currently holding a grip that fell beyond the physical and stretched into... well. Whatever this was. He had the control, he held with within his fingers and he was challenging John to take it back. It was the only way.

John's eyelids snapped upwards, his eyes hazed and – mm, yes, frustrated. Certainly this was one of the occasions that Sherlock was pleased to be proved eternally right.

"Stop this now."

Sherlock's thumb pressed hard against the thrumming pulse, reading, analysing. "Tell me why."

John would not meet his eyes; instead he seemed to focus his gaze upon the hollow of Sherlock's throat – naturally, of course. It was directly in front of his natural eyeline. "You're too... you're taking it too far." He seemed to be taking care with his words, breathing in deeply through his nose – attempting to calm himself. "You've proved your point, I acknowledge that you're pissed off at me for insinuating that I want you to change but this isn't... this is too far, Sherlock." The mottled blue eyes flickered momentarily to his before darting back down; was that a flush to his cheeks? If Sherlock had any resolve left it was slowly evaporating, every word John spoke and every breath taken was shaking his willpower and this would not end well. "Just... please. Let go. Move. I can't."

Sherlock tilted his chin slightly, knowing his arrogance would edge John further towards unmasking himself. "Can't what? Vague, so vague, it's infuriating."

"Let go."

"No."

"Sherlock -" John dragged his stare up to meet his taller friend's own blazing look – another erratic hammering of a heartbeat, a flash of confusion and, ah, yes, a definite dilation of pupils. Evidence. More evidence to collate. "I am asking you... nicely... to let go of my wrist and step back. I am tired and this is all just too much of a twisted power-play and I _don't have the patience to deal with it right now._"

"Are you afraid of me?"

The question took John by surprise; his head twitched, eyes narrowed. "Don't be stupid. I told, you I don't have -"

"Then it must be enjoyment." John wasn't wrong. It was a game of power and Sherlock had it. But he needed it. He needed to know. "Admit it."

John's eyes narrowed further still. "What are you talking about?"

Grasping the wrist tightly between his fingers and dragging it further over his shoulder, Sherlock felt a fierce rush of exhilaration surge through the tension as John's body was pulled against his own, the sound of a sharp intake of breath crawling into the whorl of his ears and the feel of potential energy being pushed aside making him want to hiss with the sensation of every moment. "This." His long fingers spread out over the area of skin they had commandeered, feeling new skin and new heat. He watched with ferocious attention to detail as John's lips separated and his eyes widened, oh, he was so addicted to all of it, every second. "Push aside your wretched ignorance for one moment, John, and acknowledge your symptoms. Accelerated pulse." This time it was his index and middle finger that brushed over the skin of John's wrist, his thumb staying put on the rapid pulsing of blood through veins. "Heightened body temperature." He shifted even closer to John, his own breathing starting to flow out in staggered gusts, betraying his own enjoyment. Resolve was a thing of the past. "Dilated pupils." His stare was as intent as ever, willing the truth of it to be transferred over the pitiful distance. "This, John, _this..._ it happened earlier, it's happened before now, all of this, you must understand it by now. You _have_ to understand." He breathed the words onto John's own lips, making them his. "You. Are. Enjoying. This."

**-X-**

Throwing the covers from his legs, Greg groaned loudly as he forced himself to sit up. His mouth felt as it were full of sand. Tasted a bit rank too. Whatever had been in that curry had not sat well with him, that much was obvious – his stomach had been churning since he'd left Lauren's flat, the burning acidity that came with heartburn tingling in the back of his throat and keeping him awake. He'd ignored it as best as he could but it was getting ridiculous now. He had to have a drink of water, or anything cold – maybe milk. Just something to soothe it a little.

He left the room as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake up John – god knows what he and Sherlock had been up to. He wasn't a complete idiot, he knew that Sherlock did some seriously stupid shit whenever he left the house but he and Mycroft had both agreed that it was at least better than indulging in his heroin habit, so mostly Greg didn't bother asking about it; he couldn't deny though that now his curiosity had been raised. John was hurt – the bandage had given that away – and he had no doubt whatsoever that it was Sherlock's fault. Mycroft had thought so too. He knew that when Sherlock found out that he had sent a text to Mycroft to keep him updated with the situation that he'd be pissed off but that was essentially what Greg was here for; he was a spy. A well-kept spy.

And, y'know, he did actually enjoy Sherlock's odd company. More so since John had come along. Whatever effect the mousey-haired man was having on Sherlock it was clearly a good one, and Greg wasn't going to complain about it. It was easier since Sherlock had confirmed his suspicions that the two of them weren't a couple. Less awkward. Less images of the two of them doing things that Greg had never wanted to imagine in the first place.

He shuffled down the stairs as silently as he could manage, avoiding the fourth creaky step and grasping the banister so tightly his knuckles went white. He eventually managed to reach the bottom with a careful hop over the creaky floorboard at the bottom and began to step carefully down the hallway and towards the kitchen -

Murmured voices from the room to his right; Greg turned towards the noise. He heard John's quiet voice, closely followed by words from a lower, deeper register – so, Sherlock was home. He'd have to text Mycroft. He didn't even consider the idea that the light was off for a reason or that Sherlock's final murmur – just John's name – might signify something he may not want to see; no, instead he simply walked to the doorway without pause and flicked the light switch.

Two pairs of eyes flew towards him.

His mouth fell open.

**-X-**

John did not waste a single moment; he tore his wrist from Sherlock's grasp and found himself taking three, four, five unsteady steps back until his legs hit the edge of Sherlock's armchair, struggling to keep his balance and remain upright. The light in the room brought everything into startling reality, the shock on Greg's pale face and the all too familiar indifference smoothing out the creases and edges of Sherlock's previously taut, intense expression – he found he could not look directly at his best friend, instead finding his eyes flitting to the ground and focusing on the patterned rug beneath his feet. The silence was deafening, worse than the thoughts currently shouting at him from every corner of his head... and there were a lot of them. They were racing and his heart was still pounding and he still had no idea what the hell had just happened and what was going on in Sherlock's brain, or maybe he had some idea and no desire to even consider it – christ, he was just confused. He was confused as all hell and now Greg was looking between them with his hand still on the light switch and he had no clue what he should say.

Greg spoke first, his voice full of the same uncertainty that John himself was feeling. "Uh... sorry. Sorry. I heard... um, voices. I didn't... yeah."

John glanced up at him and saw the man staring at him – yep, there was the bewilderment. And concern. Definitely concern. He had to force himself to speak, to smooth the situation... but what situation was that? What the hell had just happened? "No, it's fine, we were just..." His eyes betrayed him, flickering to look at Sherlock; the genius was looking at neither of them, staring instead at the clock in the dining room. "...talking."

The smallest of laughs from Sherlock and the twist of an unfamiliar smile; there was no warmth in it whatsoever as he turned his head and looked directly at John for the briefest of moments, eyes full of derision and disbelief. They stood that way for a while, John looking at Sherlock, Sherlock looking at John and Greg looking between them both as he lifted a hand to the back of his head and scratched the edge of his ear with all the awkwardness of a boy who had just walked in on their parents having sex.

Greg broke the silence again. "Right. I was just..." he pointed towards the kitchen with a finger, eyes still not knowing which man to look at, "...going to get a glass of water. Heard voices."

"So you decided to interrupt?" Sherlock's voice was cold, sending the temperature of the room down by degrees. Greg blinked, mouth hanging open. "Didn't consider the idea that perhaps we were having a private conversation?"

"Sherlock," John warned quietly, shaking his head once, "leave it."

The look Sherlock shot him was of pure ice. "Why?"

_Why? Let me count the bloody reasons._ "Because Greg hasn't done anything wrong and you're acting like an arsehole. Just let him go and get his water."

"Look, guys, I'm sorry. I'll bugger off and -"

"Yes, please do," Sherlock muttered, turning away from them and walking into the dining room. "Perhaps next time you could knock."

"Yeah." Greg stepped back, ready to bolt. "Sure. Sorry."

"And stop apologising. You sound like an imbecile."

John folded his arms tight over his chest, starting to feel a little pissed off. "Sherlock, seriously, just shut up all right? Stop being a prick, he's apologising for something he doesn't even need to apologise for -"

"He interrupted us," Sherlock interrupted, eyes flashing. "I wasn't finished."

John straightened his back, shoulders rolling back. "No? What exactly were you planning to do next?"

Greg took another step back, realising he really didn't want to witness this; neither of them noticed. Sherlock did not turn. "It doesn't matter now. The moment is over."

Moment? What moment? "Y'know, I still have no idea what you're talking about. You chastise me for being vague and you're not even communicating to me what is _actually_ going on."

Sherlock whirled around. "Oh? How about... let me see..." He rolled his eyes. "How about enjoyment? Wouldn't you say _that_ was what was 'going on'? I thought I'd made that abundantly clear to you."

John's cheeks flushed. Christ. This was just... it made no sense. "Believe me, Sherlock, nothing about that situation was enjoyable. I can't see what could possibly be enjoyable about you going off on a power trip and taking advantage of me when I'm -"

Something flashed across Sherlock's face, ceasing John's words mid-sentence, making them trail off into a very awkward silence; his expression took on a mix of emotion, twisted from the original mocking smirk as it combined with something... what was it? Disappointment? Hurt? No, no, it was... guilt. Genuine guilt. Sherlock's lips separated with words he seemingly couldn't form, his eyes narrowing as he looked away and to Greg in the doorway, but it was clear to John that he wasn't really _seeing_ Greg, or anything for that matter. The silence lingered for almost a full minute, Greg sneaking a look at John almost as if to ask what was happening – John offered him a shrug, still frowning, still confused.

Sherlock started to move, turning to John and then away again; eventually he seemed to take steps towards Greg, the doorway.

"I'm going to bed." His voice was low, all irritation and condemnation completely wiped from his tone; instead it was simply empty, wholly hollow. Odd. Worrying. "Change your bandages before you leave. You're bleeding."

Greg stepped quickly out of the way as Sherlock took lithe steps to the stairs, taking them two at a time and not looking back as he made his way to the bedroom; there was the sound of a door opening and closing quietly, footsteps on the ceiling above them and finally nothing, no sound at all.

"John?"

Greg walked slowly into the room, raising his hands to gesture above him. His eyes were questioning, not so much as curious as just completely and utterly bemused – and John was right with him. The last few minutes had seemed to fly by in a mess of confusion, drama and tension and John was so far beyond comprehension that he felt a very huge urge to storm up those stairs, crash through Sherlock's bedroom door and demand an explanation.

He'd never seen Sherlock look so beaten before.

Greg cleared this throat. "So... any ideas?"

John felt his head shake, though in truth he was feeling a little numb. "My guess is as good as yours." He walked hazily towards the sofa and let himself fall back onto it, his eyes out of focus as he stared in the direction of the fireplace. "I have no bloody idea what the hell just happened and I was here the whole time."

Hesitant, Greg shuffled further into the room and over to the armchair; he looked at it for a moment before making a small grunting noise, a 'fuck it' if there ever was one – he perched on the edge and leaned forward on his elbows. "Would it piss you off if I asked you what I walked in on? I mean," he put his hands out, widening his eyes, "it's none of my fucking business and you can tell me to bugger off and leave you alone but... well, you know."

They looked at each other; John nodded, exasperated. "Mycroft."

"I promised to look out for Sherlock," Greg said simply, shrugging. "And... it's my responsibility to make sure he's not in danger of hurting himself. In any sense of the word."

What an odd way to phrase it. "Hurting himself? What, you think he's going to try and get some more heroin or something?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Greg parroted, his gaze open and frank. "But that's not really what I meant."

John rubbed his hands down his face, realising too late that his palm felt as if it were on fire and that it was, in fact, bleeding – just as Sherlock had said. He sighed and untucked the material from its place, starting to unwind it. "I've just spent an evening musing over the words and actions of a man who is possibly _the_ most ambiguous man I've ever known, so please ask me to read into whatever you're trying to say, just... say it." He looked up as the last piece of bandage fell from his hand, revealing a blood-streaked palm and very angry-looking cut. "If it's not too much to ask."

Greg looked at him in sheer disbelief. "Are you... right, yeah, you're actually serious. Bloody hell."

Reaching over to the packet of antiseptic wipes sitting on the coffee table, John frowned. "What? What are you so surprised about?"

A grin spread across Greg's face, his eyes still round with incredulity as he looked at John as if trying to assess some sort of second meaning to his words. "You – John. Come on. You know what's going on here, surely. Even _I_ can see it and I'm one of the most ignorant people you'll ever know!"

"Not according to Sherlock," John muttered, wiping a little too hard at the cut and making it start bleeding again. "According to him _I'm_ the most ignorant person he's ever met." He hissed through his teeth. "Shit. This hurts."

"Yeah, well, Sherlock's usually right." Greg was still staring at him with that 'look' on his face, not dissimilar from the one that Sherlock tended to use when he was wondering how John could be quite so ridiculously slow. "You're actually telling me – no, I'm really asking, don't look at me like that – you're telling me that you have no idea what all of this is about?"

"_Yes_," John stressed the word, reaching for a new bandage, "yes Greg, that's what I'm telling you. What, can you make more sense of it? You saw... what happened." The images shot through his mind, the darkness and the intensity and Sherlock's breath on his lips. His stomach jolted. "You aren't blind."

"Yeah, you're right, _I'm_ not."

"Christ." John threw the bandage down. "Stop insinuating and just _tell_ me! I'm tired!"

"Fine. I saw you. I saw you two, standing in the dark with Sherlock up in your face, his hand holding your wrist and you two pretty much pressed up against one another. I saw it." Greg's tone was disturbingly matter-of-fact. "It was a... damned compromising position to be found in."

"Compromising." John shook his head slowly from side to side, head starting to hurt. "No. No, it wasn't like that. It's not what you're thinking."

Greg laughed. "It was _exactly_ what I'm thinking."

"Well obviously not, because if your tone is suggesting what I think you're suggesting -"

"I'm not suggesting, John, I'm saying very clearly that it is what it is." Greg shrugged, looking up at the ceiling and then back to John. "Jesus, the whole room felt like a fucking furnace when I walked in."

John could not wrap his head around it for love nor money. "We were just talking, Greg. Sherlock was getting carried away with this big power trip after I said some thing I shouldn't have and he was the one who -"

"Well yeah," Greg was laughing again, "of course it was Sherlock. I could tell that just by looking at your face when I walked in."

"So..." John picked up the bandage again, not really focusing as he started to wrap it over his hand once again. "You... no. Right. I'm confused. And tired. But mostly confused. We were talking and he was getting carried away. Nothing compromising about it. So what exactly did _you_ think you'd walked into?"

"John." Greg was suddenly earnest, looking intently at the man who quickly glanced away and was now looking hard at the bandage as if it were a life or death situation to get it positioned just right. "You were _inches_ from each other."

"Because he was getting carr-"

"You are so fucking in denial," Greg cut across exasperatedly, torn between a grin and a grimace. "That or you are genuinely even stupider than I am."

John's hands slowed on the bandage and eventually came to a stop; he forced himself to think about what Greg was saying, feeling the exhaustion starting to creep into his body and making him feel very much like he wanted to tell Greg to bugger off and leave him alone – but then again, maybe it wasn't exhaustion at all. His eyes raised to meet Greg's honest gaze, trying to understand. Because maybe exhaustion was cloaking something else.

And maybe he just really didn't want to face it.

He spoke, quieter now than before. "Greg. Please."

Greg's eyes glittered with something similar to sympathy, his lips opening for a moment before he actually uttered anything. "You're right, okay? You're right. Sherlock got carried away."

"Exactly -"

"Mycroft sent me a text before I came downstairs."

John nodded slowly. "All right... about Sherlock?"

"Yeah."

"Can I ask what it said?"

Greg sighed. "It said that Sherlock had told him what he and I had already talked about. What we'd thought was going to happen."

John was starting to feel his irritation rise again. "Still not being specific enough, Greg, because I have no idea what you and Mycroft talked about."

The dark-haired man hesitated, trying to piece the right words together. "Did Sherlock ever tell you about what I realised from what happened at the party?"

"During Ring of Fire?" John nodded, brow creasing slightly. "About us not being in a relationship? Yeah, he told me. He told me he was going to talk to Mycroft about it too, clear everything up."

"Right. So that's what he told you." Greg nodded, his teeth peeking over his lower lip to nibble on it. "I can see why you... okay. Look, John -" He leaned over a little further, eyes narrowing slightly, " - that isn't what I said to him."

John blinked. "What?"

"Yeah. I didn't say that I didn't think you weren't in a relationship. He's... heavily paraphrasing."

"...all right. So..." John waited.

Greg bit his lip again, worrying away at it. "I told him that it was obvious that you guys weren't... doing it."

"Doing... it?"

"Sex." Greg clarified this with a brief roll of his eyes. "I told him that you weren't having sex. And he agreed."

John stared at him, nonplussed. "Well, that's fine. Because we're not."

"I know."

"So what's the problem?"

"He..." Greg sighed, suddenly looking as exhausted as John felt. "He's a bastard. If he'd just told you what I'd actually said none of this would have even happened and he -"

"GREG."

"Fine, fine! I told him that it was obvious where this was going and that needed to realise what the fuck was going to happen and do something about it."

John's stomach twisted into an uncomfortable, awkward knot and refused to budge even as he cleared his throat and shifted with the intention of clearing and shifting the unwelcome weight. "Okay... but what exactly do you think is going to happen?"

An almost pitying smile. "Yeah, well, it's a bit late now. It's already happened."

His mind started to nudge him, push him, tell him to back away and get out of the room; it knew. His instincts knew. He was harshly aware that he was about to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to yet, for the life of him, he could not stop himself.

"Just... tell me. Quickly."

A brief moment where Greg genuinely seemed to consider it – but no, he was pushing himself up off the armchair and rubbing his hair roughly with his hands, shaking his head and grinning almost as if wondering how he had let it get this far. "Nah, no, y'know what? I can't do it. He has to do this himself, it's not fair on him -"

"It's not fair on me to keep me in the dark about something that is _clearly _going to start becoming a problem!" John was adamant despite his better judgement, his stomach fluttering and his palms starting to sweat once more, just like it had before with bloody Sherlock and before Greg had walked into the bloody room. "Please, just... you have to tell me. I can't guess this, I can't figure it out on my own and I don't even know if I want to, so just tell me. Get it out. Tell me and stop trying to protect either one of us as you're clearly trying to do." He leaned forward. "_Please_."

Greg wavered for only a moment before he offered his wide open palms to John, an offering, or perhaps an apology.

"John. He's falling in love with you, mate."


	31. Chapter 31

**A/N: NEW CHAPTER ALERT! READ IT NOW! READ ITTTTT! Comments are serenaded to.  
**

**Chapter Thirty-One**

The woman stared at him.

He stared back.

She twitched her glasses and tilted her head to the side.

He narrowed his eyes.

Her lips separated and then closed again, pressing against each other until they went white.

He smirked.

Nina Reece cleared her throat, taking off her glasses and leaning forward on her chair to rest her elbows on the table. "William, we've been here for ten minutes and you have yet to answer any of my questions. _Obviously_ you're here for a reason but as of yet..." She opened her hands out, a veritable shrug; he watched her rub the side of her finger with the tip of her thumb, pressing her lips together again. So he was making her nervous. Good. "Well. As of yet I have no real idea of why you're here."

"You've read the form that I was forced to submit. It's really quite redundant to ask a question you already know the answer to."

She blinked, lips opening; he saw the glistening tip of her tongue as it dried out quickly, too quickly – yes, she was most definitely not comfortable with him. Her outward actions and words said otherwise, she had been doing this a long time and knew what she had to do, but the little things were giving her away. Not that she was aware of this. Nobody ever was.

"I feel that in an introductory session it's important to hear from you, in your own words, what led you to seek out counselling. Your notes are really only a guideline and -"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, foot bouncing slightly in his impatience as he crossed his legs. "Unless someone has doctored the notes that I sent to your receptionist I'm relatively certain that they are indeed in my own words. I was very specific."

The tiniest of sighs and such an insignificant twitch of her brow that were she sitting opposite anybody else it would no doubt go unnoticed. She plucked the notes from the desk in front of her but did not read them. "It's necessary for your own personal development if you tell me now, directly, why you're here. I understand completely that seeking out a counsellor is a big step and one that was clearly taken as, ah, a _last resort_." She gave him a forced smile, supposedly to make him feel at ease. "But talking to me now is imperative in order to -"

"Establish trust. I'm aware."

"Well then." She stared at him intently. "Would you care to indulge me?"

A voice in his head. Not his own.

"_...whether you like it or not, Sherlock, I _will_ worry about you. No matter how much you tell me not to, that you can handle it, I'm still going to worry. And it would make me feel a lot better about all of this if you took the first step with me."_

"William?"

He jerked his head slightly in irritation. "Don't interrupt me."

Her considerably hairy brow wrinkled in confusion. "You weren't speaking."

Sherlock sighed, looking at her with deep consternation. "I was _thinking_. Indulge me, won't you?"

She didn't like that, didn't like having her words thrown back at her; her lips pursed unattractively, leaning back on her chair and clearly starting an attempt to analyse him. "Do you often find yourself acting defensively when faced with an uncomfortable situation?"

His icy eyes narrowed. "Oh, please. Is that really the best you can do?"

"Work with me," she insisted, steepling her fingers together and nodding in what she seemed to think was an encouraging way. "It will benefit you, I assure you."

The voice again. _"Just... do it with me. Do it with me and maybe it'll feel a little easier to walk in there knowing I'm not the only one preparing to lay myself open to a complete stranger."_

"Go away, John," he muttered, fingers starting to flick at the arm of the chair. Nina narrowed her own dull grey eyes, picking up on the murmur and leaping on it like a lifeline.

"John? Who's John?"

His eyes flickered to hers and burned. No. "Not up for discussion."

A smile flitted across her face. Smug. He wanted to psychoanalyse her until she wept. John was off-limits. "Is he the one who encouraged you to attend counselling?"

"Not. Up. For. Discussion."

"Well, he's on your mind. Maybe he _should_ be up for discussion." She shrugged, picking up a pen and starting to fiddle with it. "As you don't seem to want to talk about whatever brought you here."

Sherlock's jaw tightened. "If you're deliberately trying to antagonise me into responding you are going to be sorely disappointed."

"I'm not trying to antagonise you, William. I'm trying to find something that you're willing to talk about. You _are_ here for a reason," she said, suddenly sounding terribly fair, "but as you seem unwilling to discuss it at this point in time I would like to find something that you _do_ feel able to talk about."

He stared at her for a long time before answering. "I am not unwilling. I just find the idea of this... _session_... pointless."

"Pointless? But you're here, after all." Her head tilted to the side again, questioning. He decided to allow her this.

"It was not my idea."

"Yes, I'd worked that out." She offered him a small smile. He did not return it, but he refrained from narrowing his eyes. "So. John?"

Sherlock did not know how to make his point any clearer. "If you insist on bringing his name into this -"

"I was referring to the person who encouraged you to come here. Was it John?"

He did not know how to answer. Perhaps the truth. This once. "Yes."

She nodded, putting down the pen she'd been fiddling with and eyeing him closely. "So. John gave you the motivation to sign up for counselling. But what motivated you to walk in here today? I know that you don't _want_ to be here, yet here you are sitting in front of me and you have yet to walk out despite the assumption that I'm trying to antagonise you. Something is keeping you here, William, and I really would like it if you could tell me what that 'something' is."

He sighed.

"I am here because I promised to be. I am here out of loyalty to a friend, not in order to actually divulge about my heroin addiction."

"But would John have wanted to you to open up, surely? If you signed up for him and came here for him, he must have some expectations in regards to what you say to me?"

"John has no expectations of me," Sherlock replied shortly, narrowing his glacial eyes. "It is one of the reasons I agreed to come here in the first place. It was a request, not a demand." He looked away for a moment before reluctantly looking back at her questioning gaze. He repeated his initial assessment. "John has no expectations of me."

Nina smiled slightly. "No expectations." Something flickered behind her eyes, something akin to interest – clearly she had picked up on something. He had already said too much about the very subject he had identified as not up for discussion just moments ago. "Everybody has expectations."

Sherlock did not want to discuss it. He did not. That, however, did not stop him from speaking, almost as if he was not in control of his mouth. It was starting to become a problem. "From the moment we met he made it clear that he did not need me, did not require anything from me. His emotional state is not stable, he could easily ask the world and not think twice, yet he still has only ever asked this one small favour of me and I have followed it through out of respect for his wishes. His expectations of me are, if in existence, very limited."

She wrote something down. He clenched his jaw. "How long have you known John?"

Sherlock eyed her closely. "Over a month."

Another miniscule twitch of her heavy eyebrows. "That's a relatively short space of time considering -"

"Considering what?"

She observed him from across the desk, looking no more harmless than a fly yet already she had somehow slipped from him information he had been intent not to release. He had underestimated her. "Most of the time I hear that people have been encouraged to seek counselling by family members, close friends, people who have seen you at your best and your worst and have seen the process of change before their very eyes. It says here that your addiction started at…" she glanced down at the piece of paper in front of her, "…seventeen. You've known John for a significantly small period of time since your struggle began and yet he's the only one who has managed to have an effect enough to convince you that you should consider coming to see me. Not only did you consider it but you're sitting here in front of me. It's interesting."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "_Interesting_. Well. I'm glad I'm of some entertainment to you."

She disregarded the comment. "What makes John so different that he had such an effect on you?"

Too close to the bone. "Not up for discussion."

"On the contrary he seems to be the _only_ thing that you're willing to discuss. I'd even go so far as to say that you _want_ to discuss him."

He had _definitely_ underestimated her. "I was under the impression that you weren't supposed to lead the conversation."

"I make exceptions when I need to. Everybody is different."

Sherlock's long fingers picked at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. "I'm relatively certain that would be considered unprofessional."

She offered him a smile, the first genuine one since he had walked in. "I prefer 'effective'. And, so. John. What makes him different?"

The first threads of a begrudging respect started to wind their way into Sherlock's opinion of her. Yes, it was an effective approach. How irritating. "There is nothing definitive about it. He just is."

"Do you have many friends?"

The change of topic jarred him. "I… no. Friends are unnecessary."

"But then," she raised her hands in a questioning gesture, "John seems to bely that attitude. So there must be something that sets him apart."

"I told you." His voice was steely. "He has no expectations. He is the first person I've ever observed who expects so little from people, particularly me. It takes a considerable amount to surprise me yet he did that from the very first moment we spoke."

She nodded, writing something else down. "And how _did_ you meet John?"

Sherlock hesitated; all right, so he was discussing John, but he did not feel it was necessary to divulge to his woman information that John struggled himself to admit. It would be inappropriate. He would simply leave out certain information. "His academic situation was… precarious. He was referred to me by one of the faculty members."

"Referred to you?"

"I'm a Personal Academic Tutor," he informed her, speaking the term as if it had little import. "I offer aid to students who are struggling in their studies and cultivate an effective learning plan for them in order to improve their academic standing."

She put down her pen. "I see. That sounds like a lot of work."

"Not particularly."

This interested her. "Do you have a lot of students to advise?"

She knew exactly which questions to ask, everything relevant. "No."

Her gaze was open, her eyes revealing without question that she knew exactly what he meant. She still asked the question.

"How many?"

He waited a few moments before answering. "Just the one."

"Mm." She tapped her fingers on the edge of the desk. He replicated the movement without realising it. "So, yet again, John is an anomaly."

It surprised him how much he liked that analysis. "Yes. In all things."

It was too intimate a statement to make; he could see the spark in her eyes and could feel his stomach start to curl and tense at his own admission, an odd sense of vulnerability starting to creep into his person and forcing him to fight the urge to stand up and leave without so much as speaking another word – fighting the urge. He was fighting it. He was not giving into it. Something was keeping him here. He had to say something.

Sherlock's throat was tight. "Isn't this session supposed to be merely introductory? We've been here some time."

She was unrelenting. "I have no one else to see today."

"I…" It was such a struggle. He felt the urge to tell her everything, the desire overwhelming him and making him feel infinitely weak. "This cannot continue."

"William." She leaned forward in her seat and was looking at him with such warm eyes that he suddenly saw John leaning across from him instead, his eyes kind, non-judgemental. After last night he was unsure he would ever see that look again. It made him feel sick. He had to get out. "What are you so afraid of?"

The question tore something within him. The hole had already been there. It had widened. It was painful. The words fell out of him like a gunshot, low and emotionless and so hollow it echoed in his head.

"Rejection."

He did not miss her own eyes widening in surprise, her professionalism disappearing for a moment as she absorbed the damning meaning of the word; she leaned back again, relaxing into her chair as she stared at him in astonishment. "That's very bold, William."

Sherlock could only stare back at her.

"To admit fear of rejection, to even admit that there is something you've offered that could be rejected…"

"It's pathetic," he said bluntly, unforgiving. "It was not my intention to speak of it. Of anything."

"You feel weak." It was not a question.

"Obviously."

"Then you're under a misapprehension." Her words were almost stern. It was better than the warmth. "It takes strength, not weakness, to open up to someone."

His eyes were empty as he regarded her. "Then please explain to me why I feel so frustratingly impuissant. Tell me how it is that I have opened myself up further than I have to anyone else in my life before and yet, rather than strong, I simply feel… lackadaisical. Torpid." He stopped posturing about with his vocabulary and repeated his initial evaluation. "Weak."

Sherlock did not need to say aloud that he was no longer talking about her or their session. She knew that he was talking about John. Thinking about John. Here for John. _Because_ of John. He had not been lying when he had said he was not here to discuss his heroin addiction. He was here for his _other_ addiction.

The counsellor knew it. "You've never felt a connection to another person like this before?"

He laughed, a pitiful sound of utter derision, wholly directed at himself. "Absolutely not."

"Is he…" She was choosing her words with care. "Hm. Is he aware?"

Sherlock shifted slightly in his seat, his vulnerability cloaking him and making him throw out a defensive shield against her. "Aware of what?"

Nina said nothing, simply waited. It was effective. She was very good. The respect grew.

He cleared his throat, the sound reminding him of John in an awkward situation. He'd heard of people who shared a close bond starting to mimic the other. Perhaps that was what he was doing. Fool. "I believe he is… ignorant to the situation."

"Have you considered telling him?"

"Telling him what, exactly?" His throat was tight again, limiting the emotion in his words despite the surge of them. He hated his hormones. He hated this lack of control. He wished he was thirty years old, forty, certain that if he were older he would at least be able to ignore his growing feelings and come to a point that he could stand by and watch John move on with his life, fall in love elsewhere, marry, have children. "That there is no man better, warmer, more considerate? That he is the most simple, endearing, trustworthy creature I've ever come across? That I…" He stopped, waiting for the mania threatening to erupt from his chest to calm and settle. "No. No, I cannot tell him. That much is obvious."

She picked up on it immediately. "You've tried?"

"I made a fool of myself," he muttered, shaking his curly head and feeling the blunt jab of his memories threatening to overwhelm him. The look on John's face. The confusion. The disbelief at his absurd actions. "On the very same day that I realise what had happened, the same day that I realised quite what he… meant… to me…"

Nina did not push him. "Take your time."

He started from the beginning of the evening. "We had kept up a pretence of a sexual relationship for the sake of irritating my brother, something to entertain me; he went along with it without question, he saw nothing in it. But yesterday, yesterday he asked for me to clear it up with Mycroft. He asked me to specify what we actually are rather than continue the charade. I agreed. I planned to tell him that we were merely friends."

"And something changed that?"

"John got hurt on account of me. Injured his hand. As he stood there, pale and bleeding, I felt a surge of it, a rush, almost an ache – I cared. I cared that he was hurt. I wasn't just concerned, I was… horrified. The guilt was like I've never felt before, it tore at me and made me feel as if the pain he was feeling in his hand was resting now within myself." He laughed again at himself. "How whimsical. How ridiculous. But accurate. Very accurate." Sherlock trailed off, thinking for a moment. "He asked me to take him home, to my home, and I did. I took him home with the promise that I would take care of him. I had never been asked to do anything of the sort for anybody, yet a single request from him and I was completely unable to refuse."

She nodded, pointing the end of her pen at him. "Not for the first time."

"No."

"What happened next?"

The memories flooded him, the warmth and texture of John's skin, the first hazy glance of mottled blue eyes and the confusion swimming on their surface at the realisation that it had been Sherlock's tender and willing touch to his wrist in order to comfort and soothe. "I took care of him. I cleaned and bandaged his hand. I… attempted to comfort him." He didn't want to explain. He hoped that she would not assume it was something more than a brush of a thumb against delicate skin. "Before he awoke he… murmured something. My name. Twice. I didn't realise what he said the first time, but the second time it was clear enough that it froze me, I couldn't move for seconds… perhaps a whole minute. I knelt there at his side, staring at him like he'd never said my name before. But then, he hadn't. Not like that. It was…" He swallowed, seeing it in front of him as if it were tangible. "It was so… warm. Like he was reaching out to me. I've never heard my name spoken like that by anybody and it just broke something within me, it was irreparable, _inconceivable_… because I longed to hear it again. Longed for it. I have never longed for a single thing in my entire life yet I longed for the man lying in front of me to say my name like it mattered again, again, again. And I realised it. I realised what had happened."

Her eyes were intent. "I think you should say it aloud, William."

He could not. "I can't even say it aloud to myself. I'm not sure I've even thought it. Not what you're asking. Not those words."

"But you do? Feel the words that you can't say?"

Sherlock battled the desire to raise his hand and press his palm to his chest. "I know that I feel. I think that's quite enough without defining it."

Again, Nina didn't press him. "That's fine. Just accepting those feelings is a huge step."

He eyed her steadily. "I've told you too much, you know." He shook his head. "It is a failure on my part."

She shrugged, a 'what are you gonna do' sort of gesture; he'd seen John do it many a time. Ugh. John. Always John. "But at least you've stayed true to what you promised. You opened yourself up. You did it for John."

The words were exactly what he needed to hear and equally everything that he could not accept. "Last night, after things became too intense – and I won't discuss that, I can't, not now – I went to my brother and confessed… well. Everything. I embarrassed myself. Still, he was accepting. He didn't judge me." He hadn't even realised the importance of that before now. He sat quietly for a moment before continuing. "He wasn't surprised."

Nina waited. She knew the right moments to stay silent. He decided that he might actually attend the next session.

"And then I went back, torn between telling John the truth and waiting for him to come to the realisation himself. He and I spoke. He inferred something that affected me and I temporarily lost control of my actions. I made him feel threatened. I made him feel confused. We were… very close. Physically. It was my doing, not his. But he enjoyed it." This he said with certainty. "I _know_ he did."

Confusion flashed across her features. "I'm sorry… what did he enjoy?"

He found himself leaning forward, his mind starting to pulse out images as he recalled the moments before they were interrupted. "Our proximity. I held his wrist in my hand and… pulled him close. Very close. His pupils dilated, his breathing became shallow… his pulse raced." He wanted to keep remembering, he could not stop. "It was either fear or enjoyment, but believe me, believe me when I assure you that I've seen it before. I've seen how he reacts to me before. He was drunk, he was just reacting to physical contact, it had been quite some time since he'd experienced such things, but he reacted the exact same way. He admitted it that night that he had reacted through enjoyment, though expressed no further feelings. This time he didn't have a chance to do either of those things." Sherlock could see her making her own assumptions; no. She was wrong. "Not what you're thinking."

She raised an eyebrow, only slightly surprised by his words. "What was I thinking?"

"That I… kissed him." He shook his head, the very idea of it making his head spin. "We were interrupted by a mutual acquaintance. My housemate."

Nina tilted her head slightly to one side. "Did you want to?"

"Be interrupted?"

"No." Her gaze was steady, a small smile at her lips. "Kiss him."

His lips separated, startled as he actually thought about it, considered the idea of whether that was where he would have taken the situation if Greg hadn't walked in; how had he not wondered before now? He had, after all, said to John that he wasn't finished with him. What had that meant? It was ludicrous that he hadn't even known as he had spoken the words, worse that he wasn't even sure now.

Would he have kissed John?

Ah.

Kissing John. John's breath on his lips. John's lips on his lips. John's lips. John kissing Sherlock back. John's kiss.

_John._

Nina slowly moved back to rest her back against the chair, fiddling with her pen as she observed him before speaking quietly out into the silence as he lost himself in the images that were now overwhelming him. "Let's stop there."

The room came back to him in a cold rush; his body felt odd, almost as if it were not quite attached to the rest of him. "What?"

She nodded slightly. "I think we should stop for today. You've been very forthcoming and have shared a lot with me, which is good, but I only expect you to go so far. I think you've reached your limit for now."

No, that wasn't right. He had reached his limit the moment he'd walked into the room. He had reached his limit the moment he'd even considered coming here. "I see."

"But we can schedule another appointment for next week, if you'd like?"

No, he wouldn't like – that didn't explain, however, his response. "Yes. Preferably Tuesday again."

It had been John who had needed this. It had been John who had been the more willing of the two, if you could consider his obvious reluctance a sign of will. John had been the one who would open up and tell his own intense, friendly counsellor his problems and would find himself able to piece himself back together. Sherlock was supposed to be the one who resisted and came out of it without having said a word. And yet…

Their roles had been reversed. Sherlock had divulged. John had been in the room with his counsellor for less than ten minutes.

It was absurd.

Nina was talking. "…twelve in the afternoon. Does that suit you?"

He stared at her. "What?"

Her lips twitched at the corners. "Your appointment. Next Tuesday, midday." Sherlock forced a curt nod. "All right then, next Tuesday it is! How are you feeling?"

Sherlock stood abruptly, feeling the session coming to a close and wanting to get out instantly – it was different from the desire to leave he had experienced earlier. He felt it was imperative now. He felt that he would be smothered by the words he had spoken if he did not leave the room.

"I'm fine. But I'm late for a lecture."

Nina blinked, hesitating a moment before pushing herself to her feet. "Right, well, you'd better be leaving then…" She walked around the desk and extended her hand, misty grey eyes fixed on his as he reached out and grasped it briefly with his own. "It was nice to meet you, William. I look forward to seeing you next week."

He gave her a curt nod. "Next week."

**-X-**

_**John Watson:**_

_Hope you managed not to kill your counsellor!_

Sherlock stared at the screen in disbelief. John. John had sent him a text. They had not spoken since the evening before, but here it was, a text message, a text message from John, no angry words and no accusations. Just John. John making a joke.

The lecture hall hazed out as his slender thumbs started to type out a message from underneath the desk, his head trying to get past the ridiculous shock so that he could reply with something that at least appeared to make sense:

_Murder isn't really my area. I prefer psychological torture. Naturally I was successful._

He sent it with a hard tap to the screen, his leg starting to bounce beneath the table as he stared intently at his screen without a single thought to the students around him or the lecturer who was still going on about something that he no doubt already knew. Two minutes. Three. Four and a half.

Ah.

_**John Watson:**_

_Oh, well, naturally. Wouldn't expect any less! Are you busy?_

Sherlock felt his irritation at himself rise. Yes. Yes, he was busy. Why was he busy?

_In a lecture. Problem?_

Two minutes.

_**John Watson:**_

_No, just wondering if you were free for lunch._

Well. That was a good sign. Wasn't that a good sign? He was typing before he'd even thought about what to say:

_Dinner?_

This time it was eleven minutes. Eleven whole minutes. Was John hesitating after Sherlock's indulgent display last night? He couldn't blame him.

_**John Watson:**_

_Good idea. Shall we cook at yours? I'll bring something._

Cooking. Domestic. Greg would be out. The two of them. Cooking. Eating. Very domestic.

He shook his head, irritated at the way his head was making things seem. He tapped out a reply perhaps a little harder than he should have:

_Greg won't be there._

Not even two minutes passed.

_**John Watson:**_

_I know._

Sherlock's stomach twisted. He took a whole minute to reply:

_6pm then._

Barely even a minute.

_**John Watson:**_

_I'll be there. You can tell me all about the psychological torturing of your poor counsellor._

Sherlock shut his eyes briefly.

He'd have to lie.

* * *

**A/N:** Not to worry, everyone, you'll find out the rest of John and Greg's conversation eventually. Patience, my pretties! XD


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